Yes, I read. I have that absurd habit. I like beautiful poems, moving poetry, and all the of that poetry. I am extraordinarily sensitive to those poor, marvelous words left in our dark night by a few men I never knew.
As if one could do what one wanted with one's own body!
Your imagination, my dear fellow, is worth more than you imagine.
It sometimes happens that pleasure blows anywhere it damn well chooses.
I demand that my books be judged with utmost severity, by knowledgeable people who know the rules of grammar and of logic, and who will seek beneath the footsteps of my commas the lice of my thought in the head of my style.
Light is meaningful only in relation to darkness, and truth presupposes error. It is these mingled opposites which people our life, which make it pungent, intoxicating. We only exist in terms of this conflict, in the zone where black and white clash.
Love is made by two people, in different kinds of solitude. It can be in a crowd, but in an oblivious crowd.
We know that the nature of genius is to provide idiots with ideas twenty years later.
Of all possible sexual perversions, religion is the only one to have ever been scientifically systematized.
Fear of error which everything recalls to me at every moment of the flight of my ideas, this mania for control, makes men prefer reason's imagination to the imagination of the senses. And yet it is always the imagination alone which is at work.
O reason, reason, abstract phantom of the waking state, I had already expelled you from my dreams, now I have reached a point where those dreams are about to become fused with apparent realities: now there is only room here for myself.