I feel myself inhabited by a force or being -- very little known to me. It gives the orders; I follow.

The ear disapproves but tolerates certain musical pieces; transfer them into the domain of our nose, and we will be forced to flee.

History is a combination of reality and lies. The reality of History becomes a lie. The unreality of the fable becomes the truth.

It seems to me that invisibility is the required provision of elegance. Elegance ceases to exist when it is noticed.

I have seafoam in my veins, I understand the language of waves.

Everything one does in life, even love, occurs in an express train racing toward death. To smoke opium is to get out of the train while it is still moving. It is to concern oneself with something other than life or death.

The job of the poet (a job which can't be learned) consists of placing those objects of the visible world which have become invisible due to the glue of habit, in an unusual position which strikes the soul and gives them a tragic force.