The Act Of Love Strongly Resembles Torture

Passion I Hate, And Spirit Does Me Wrong. Let Us Love Gently.

I Felt Passing Over Me The Wind Of The Wing Of Madness.

Everything That Gives Pleasure Has Its Reason. To Scorn The Mobs Of Those Who Go Astray Is Not The Means To Bring Them Around.

...an Industry Which Can Furnish Results Identical To Nature Must Be The Absolute In Art.

I Sit In The Sky Like A Sphinx Misunderstood; My Heart Of Snow Is Wed To The Whiteness Of Swans; I Hate The Movement That Displaces The Rigid Lines, With Lips Untaught Neither Tears Nor Laughter Do I Know.