Eroticism, it may be said, is assenting to life up to the point of death

Pleasure only starts once the worm has got into the fruit; to become delightful, happiness must be tainted with poison.

The sacred demands the violation of what is normally the object of terrified respect.

When my face is flushed with blood, it becomes red and obscene. It betrays at the same time, through morbid reflexes, a bloody erection and a demanding thirst for indecency and criminal debauchery.

I believe that truth has only one face: that of a violent contradiction.

Not every woman is a prostitute, but prostitution is the natural apotheosis of the feminine attitude.

A man who finds himself among others is irritated because he does not know why he is not one of the others. In bed next to a girl he loves, he forgets that he does not know why he is himself instead of the body he touches. Without knowing it, he suffers from the mental darkness that keeps him from screaming that he himself is the girl who forgets his presence while shuddering in his arms.