You can lose your way groping among the shadows of the past.

A God who counts minutes and pennies, a desperate sensual God, who grunts like a pig. A pig with golden wings, who falls and falls, always belly side up, ready for caresses, that’s him, our master. Come, kiss me.

That is perhaps what we seek throughout life, that and nothing more, the greatest possible sorrow so as to become fully ourselves before dying.

The plain truth, I may as well admit it, is that I've never been really right in the head.

There is no rest for the humble except in despising the great, whose only thought of the people is inspired by self-interest or sadism.

Lots of men are like that, their artistic leanings never go beyond a weakness for shapely thighs.

If you aren't rich you should always look useful.