Art is science made flesh.

Man seeks to escape himself in myth, and does so by any means at his disposal. Drugs, alcohol, or lies. Unable to withdraw into himself, he disguises himself. Lies and inaccuracy give him a few moments of comfort.

If an addict who has been completely cured starts smoking again he no longer experiences the discomfort of his first addiction. There exists, therefore, outside alkaloids and habit, a sense for opium, an intangible habit which lives on, despite the recasting of the organism. The dead drug leaves a ghost behind. At certain hours it haunts the house.

The joy of youth is to disobey; but the trouble is that there are no longer any orders.

Poetry, being elegance itself, cannot hope to achieve visibility... It insists on living its own life.

Without resistance you can do nothing

The speed of a runaway horse counts for nothing.