Sovereignty, loyalty, and solitude.

My true church is a whorehouse – the only one that gives me true satisfaction.

In what will survive me I am in harmony with my annihilation.

Realism gives me the impression of a mistake. Violence alone escapes the feeling of poverty of those realistic experiences. Only death and desire have the force that oppresses, that takes one's breath away. Only the extremism of desire and death enable one to attain the truth.

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.

By the care she lavishes on her toilet, by the concern she has for her beauty set off by her adornment, a woman regards herself as an object always trying to attract men's attention.

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