I Am The Vampire At My Own

A Book Is A Garden, A Party, A Company By The Way.

It Is From The Womb Of Art That Criticism Was Born.

Il Faut E Pater Le Bourgeois. One Must Astound The Bourgeois.

The Immense Profundity Of Thought In Vulgar Locutions, Like Holes Dug By Generations Of Ants.

What Men Call Love Is A Very Small, Restricted, Feeble Thing Compared With This Ineffable Orgy, This Divine Prostitution Of The Soul Giving Itself Entire, All Its Poetry And All Its Charity, To The Unexpected As It Comes Along, To The Stranger As He Passes.