Repudiating the virtues of your world, criminals hopelessly agree to organize a forbidden universe. They agree to live in it. The air there is nauseating. They can breathe it.

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

I give the name violence to a boldness lying idle and enamored of danger.

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

Poetry is the break (or rather the meeting at the breaking point) between the visible and the invisible.

Added to the moral solitude of the murderer comes the solitude of the artist, which can acknowledge no authority, save that of another artist.

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