Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.

The most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.

The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.

Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.

In the same way, you were happy in spring, With the half colors of quarter-things, The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds, The single bird, the obscure moon- The obscure moon lighting an obscure world Of thing that would never be quite expressed, Where you yourself were never quite yourself And did not want nor have to be.

Everything possessed the power to transform itself, or else, and what meant more, to be transformed.

It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.