For true poetry, complete poetry, consists in the harmony of contraries. Hence, it is time to say aloud--and it is here above allthat exceptions prove the rule--that everything that exists in nature exists in art.

A bit of mould is a pleiad of flowers; a nebula is an ant-hill of stars.

A compliment is something like a kiss through a veil.

Hope is a delusion; no hand can grasp a wave or a shadow.

Is it not a thing divine to have a smile which, none know how, has the power to lighten the weight of that enormous chain which all the living in common drag behind them?

Monastic incarceration is castration.

God was bored by him.