Love is made by two people, in different kinds of solitude. It can be in a crowd, but in an oblivious crowd.

For each man there awaits... a particular image capable of annihilating the entire universe.

There are strange flowers of reason to match each error of the senses.

We know that the nature of genius is to provide idiots with ideas twenty years later.

And there are loners in rural communities who, at the equinox, are said to don new garments and stroll down to the cities, where great beasts await them, fat and docile.

Yes, I read. I have that absurd habit. I like beautiful poems, moving poetry, and all the beyond of that poetry. I am extraordinarily sensitive to those poor, marvelous words left in our dark night by a few men I never knew.

The carnal contact side by side, from heel to armpit, brings shudders that shake up nature like the flights of nocturnal birds.