When you get an idea into your head you find it in everything.

In the opera we call love, the libretto is almost nothing.

Everything being a constant carnival, there is no carnival left.

There comes an hour when protest no longer suffices; after philosophy there must be action; the strong hand finishes what the idea has sketched.

Desiring always to be in mourning, he clothed himself with night.

It seemed to be a necessary ritual that he should prepare himself for sleep by meditating under the solemnity of the night sky... a mysterious transaction between the infinity of the soul and the infinity of the universe.

Here we stop. Upon the threshold of wedding nights stands an angel smiling, his finger on his lip.