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To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.
An artist is an artist only because of his exquisite sense of beauty, a sense which shows him intoxicating pleasures, but which at the same time implies and contains an equally exquisite sense of all deformities and all disproportion.
A sweetheart is a bottle of wine, a wife is a wine bottle.
A book is a garden, an orchard, a storehouse, a party, a company by the way, a counselor, a multitude of counselors.
Common sense tells us that the things of the earth exist only a little, and that true reality is only in dreams.
There are moments of existence when time and space are more profound, and the awareness of existence is immensely heightened.
Sexuality is the lyricism of the masses.
Progress, this great heresy of decay.
Evil is committed without effort, naturally, fatally; goodness is always the product of some art.
It would perhaps be nice to be alternately the victim and the executioner.
Let us beware of common folk, of common sense, of sentiment, of inspiration, and of the obvious.
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