A precious liquid, a poison dearer than that of the Borgias - because it is made from our blood, our health, our sleep, and two-thirds of our love - we must be stingy with it.

Dancing is poetry with arms and legs.

I am the vampire at my own veins.

The poet enjoys the incomparable privilege of being able to be himself and others, as he wishes.

How little remains of the man I once was, save the memory of him! But remembering is only a new form of suffering.

The artist is today and has been for many years, despite his absence of merit, simply a spoiled child. So many honors, so much money bestowed on men without souls and without education.

Where ever I am not is the place where I am myself.