Yes, I know, we are merely empty forms of matter, but we are indeed sublime in having invented God and our soul. So sublime, my friend, that I want to gaze upon matter, fully conscious that it exists, and yet launching itself madly into Dream, despite its knowledge that Dream has no existence, extolling the Soul and all the divine impressions of that kind which have collected within us from the beginning of time and proclaiming, in the face of the Void which is truth, these glorious lies!

Everything that is sacred and that wishes to remain so must envelop itself in mystery.

As for me, Poetry takes the place of love, because it is enamored of itself, and because this self-lust has a delightful dying fall in my soul.

The flesh is sad, alas, and I have read all the books.

It is in front of the the paper that the artist creates himself.

Paint, not the thing but the effect which it produces.

The world exists to end up in a book.