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

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.

We did not lack modesty—on the contrary—but something urgently drove us to defy modesty together as immodestly as possible.

The sexual act is in time what the tiger is in space.

The owl flies, in the moonlight, over a field where the wounded cry out. Like the owl, I fly in the night over my own misfortune.

Sacrifice is nothing other than the production of sacred things.

The sovereign being is burdened with a servitude that crushes him, and the condition of free men is deliberate servility.