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

Crimes of which a people is ashamed constitute its real history. The same is true of man.

To achieve harmony in bad taste is the height of elegance.

Limited by the world, which I oppose, jagged by it, I shall be all the more handsome and sparkling as the angles which wound me and give me shape are more acute and the jagging more cruel.

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.

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

In reviewing my life, in tracing its course, I fill my cell with the pleasure of being what for want of a trifle I failed to be, recapturing, so that I may hurl myself into them as into dark pits, those moments when I strayed through the trap-ridden compartments of a subterranean sky