The Art of Love: knowing how to combine the temperament of a vampire with the discretion of an anemone.

Suffering makes you live time in detail, moment after moment. Which is to say that it exists for you: over the others, the ones who don't suffer, time flows, so that they don't live in time, in fact they never have.

One is and remains a slave as long as one is not cured of hoping.

I would like to explode, flow, crumble into dust, and my disintegration would be my masterpiece.

The aphorism is cultivated only by those who have known fear in the midst of words, that fear of collapsing with all the words.

Music is the refuge of souls ulcerated by happiness.

What does the future, that half of time, matter to the man who is infatuated with eternity?