Imagination is nostalgia for the past, the absent it is the liquid solution in which art develops the snapshot of reality.

Most of the beauty of women evaporates when they achieve domestic happiness at the price of their independence.

Poets arguing about modern poetry: jackals snarling over a dried-up well.

Like water, we are truest to our nature in repose.

The artist one day falls through a hole in the brambles, and from that moment he is following the dark rapids of an underground river which may sometimes flow so near to the surface that the laughing picnic parties are heard above.

Only by avoiding the beginning of things can we escape their end.

For what is liberty but the unhampered translation of will into act?