Readers are not sheep, and not every pen tempts them.
Solitude is the playfield of Satan.
I think it is all a matter of love the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.
My loathings are simple stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
There are aphorisms that, like airplanes, stay up only while they are in motion.
Treading the soil of the moon, palpitating its pebbles, tasting the panic and splendor of the event, feeling in the pit of one's stomach the separation from terra - these form the most romantic sensation an explorer has ever known
Genius is an African who dreams up snow
Life is a great surprise. I don't see why death should not be an even greater one.
To play safe, I prefer to accept only one type of power: the power of art over trash, the triumph of magic over the brute
Let the credulous and the vulgar continue to believe that all mental woes can be cured by a daily application of old Greek myths to their private parts
Nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it.
Poetry involves the mysteries of the irrational perceived through rational words
Solitude is the play field of Satan
I think like a genius, I write like a distinguished author, and I speak like a child.
The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.
Literature and butterflies are the two sweetest passions known to man.
The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.
The breaking of a wave cannot explain the whole sea.
A work of art has no importance whatever to society. It is only important to the individual.
Revelation can be more perilous than Revolution.
It was love at first sight, at last sight, at ever and ever sight.
Let all of life be an unfettered howl. Like the crowd greeting the gladiator. Don't stop to think, don't interrupt the scream, exhale, release life's rapture.
Treading the soil of the moon, palpating its pebbles, tasting the panic and splendor of the event, feeling in the pit of one's stomach the separation from terra... these form the most romantic sensation an explorer has ever known...
Perhaps what matters is not the human pain or joy at all but, rather, the play of shadow and light on a live body, the harmony of trifles assembled...in a unique and inimitable way.
At eight, he had once told his mother that he wanted to paint air.