Do anything, but let it produce joy. Do anything, but let it yield ecstasy.

The poet speaks adequately only when he speaks somewhat wildly... not with intellect alone, but with intellect inebriated by nectar.

The poem is the dream made flesh, in a two-fold sense: as work of art, and as life, which is a work of art.

To be joyous is to be a madman in a world of sad ghosts.

I saw through to the last sign and symbol, but I could not read her face. I could see only the eyes shining through, huge, fleshy-like luminous beasts, as though I were swimming behind them in the electric effluvia of her incandescent vision.

Every man is working out his destiny in his own way and nobody can be of any help except by being kind, generous, and patient.

All my good reading, you might say, was done in the toilet.