Lying is the only art form that the public sanctions and instinctively prefers to reality.
The poet doesn't invent. He listens.
Nothing ever gets anywhere. The earth keeps turning round and gets nowhere. The moment is the only thing that counts.
The Louvre is a morgue; you go there to identify your friends.
Look out! Be on your guard, because alone of all the arts, music moves all around you.
A man's truest self realizations might require him, above all, to learn to close his eyes: to let himself be taken unawares, to follow his dark angel, to risk his illegal instincts.