Blind Yourself, For I Am Blind.

It Is Misery, You Know, Unspeakable Misery For The Man Who Lives Alone And Who Detests Sordid, Casual Affairs; Not Old Enough To Do Without Women, But Not Young Enough To Be Able To Go And Look For One Without Shame!

Our Spirits Have Their Own Private Way Of Understanding Each Other, Of Becoming Intimate, While Our External Persons Are Still Trapped In The Commerce Of Ordinary Words, In The Slavery Of Social Rules. Souls Have Their Own Needs And Their Own Ambitions, Which The Body Ignores When It Sees That It's Impossible To Satisfy Them Or Achieve Them.

Woe To Him Who Doesn't Know How To Wear His Mask, Be He King Or Pope!

I Hate Symbolic Art In Which The Presentation Loses All Spontaneous Movement In Order To Become A Machine, An Allegory -- A Vain And Misconceived Effort Because The Very Fact Of Giving An Allegorical Sense To A Presentation Clearly Shows That We Have To Do With A Fable Which By Itself Has No Truth Either Fantastic Or Direct; It Was Made For The Demonstration Of Some Moral Truth.

Every True Man, Sir, Who Is A Little Above The Level Of The Beasts And Plants Does Not Live For The Sake Of Living, Without Knowing How To Live; But He Lives So As To Give A Meaning And A Value Of His Own To Life.