What I say is that the supreme and singular joy of making love resides in the certainty of doing evil.

Every idea is endowed of itself with immortal life, like a human being. All created form, even that which is created by man, is immortal. For form is independent of matter: molecules do not constitute form.

Perfumes, colours and sounds echo one another.

There are but three beings worthy of respect: the priest, the warrior and the poet. To know, to kill and to create. The rest of mankind may be taxed and drudged, they are born for the stable, that is to say, to practise what they call professions.

And over your unconsecrated head you'll hear the howling wolves lament their fate and yours the livelong year.

One should always be drunk. That's all that matters...But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. But get drunk.

Where one should see only what is beautiful, our public looks only for what is true.