It's a true image, born of a false spectacle.

When we see life, we call it beautiful. When we see death, we call it ugly. But it is more beautiful still to see oneself living at great speed, right up to the moment of death.

The vaporish cocaine loosens the contours of their lives and sets their bodies adrift, and so they are untouchable.

Worse than not realizing the dreams of your youth, would be to have been young and never dreamed at all.

Would Hamlet have felt the delicious fascination of suicide if he hadn't had an audience, and lines to speak?

What we need is hatred. From it our ideas are born.

There is a close relationship between flowers and convicts. The fragility and delicacy of the former are of the same nature as the brutal insensitivity of the latter.