What necessity impels a writer who has produced fifty books to write still one more? Why this proliferation, this fear of being forgotten, this debased coquetry?

Consider love: is there a nobler outpouring, a rapture less suspect? Its shudders rival music, compete with the tears of solitude and of ecstasy: sublime...but a sublimity inseperable from the urinary tract: transports bordering upon excretion, a heaven of the glands, sudden sancitity of the orifices. It takes no more than a moment of attention for this intoxication, shaken, to cast you back into the ordures of physiology or a moment of fatigue to recognize that so much ardor produces only a variety of mucous.

Every form of talent involves a certain shameless-ness.

Maniacs of Procreation, bipeds with devalued faces, we have lost all appeal for each other.

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

Music is the refuge of souls ulcerated by happiness.

There is only one thing worse than boredom, and that is the fear of boredom.