Beauty Is The Sole Ambition, The Exclusive

Our Squalid Society Rushed, Narcissus To A Man, To Gaze On Its Trivial Image On A Scrap Of Metal.

The Whole Visible Universe Is But A Storehouse Of Images And Signs To Which The Imagination Will Give A Relative Place And Value; It Is A Sort Of Pasture Which The Imagination Must Digest And Transform.

Alas! Man's Vices, Horrible As They Are Supposed To Be, Contain The Positive Proof Of His Taste For The Infinite.

I Am A Cemetery Abhorred By The Moon, In Which Long Worms Crawl Like Remorse.

Anybody, Providing He Knows How To Be Amusing, Has The Right To Talk About Himself.