Anyone who's never experienced the pleasure of betrayal doesn't know what pleasure is.

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.

Anyone who knows a strange fact shares in its singularity.

Beauty has no other origin than the singular wound, different in every case, hidden or visible, which each man bears within himself, which he preserves, and into which he withdraws when he would quit the world for a temporary but authentic solitude

Slowly but surly I want to strip her of every kind of happiness as to make a saint of her.

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