In this mirror, I am enclosed a live and real as you. Imagine angels and not like the reflections.
I love men, not for what unites them, but for what divides them, and I want to know most of all what gnaws at their hearts.
Artists are, above all, men who want to become inhuman.
People quickly grow accustomed to being the slaves of mystery.
We cannot carry our father's corpse with us everywhere we go.
My, how beautiful is war! its songs, its leisure!