The Rose Is Born Evil ... But

Fear Of Error Which Everything Recalls To Me At Every Moment Of The Flight Of My Ideas, This Mania For Control, Makes Men Prefer Reason's Imagination To The Imagination Of The Senses. And Yet It Is Always The Imagination Alone Which Is At Work.

No More Painters, No More Scribblers, No More Musicians, No More Sculptors, No More Religions, No More Royalists, No More Radicals, No More Imperialists, No More Anarchists, No More Socialists, No More Communists, No More Proletariat, No More Democrats, No More Republicans, No More Bourgeois, No More Aristocrats, No More Arms, No More Police, No More Nations, An End At Last To All This Stupidity, Nothing Left, Nothing At All, Nothing, Nothing.

The Authors Of Book Reviews Would Consider Themselves Dishonored Were They To Mention, As They Should, The Subject Of The Book.

It Sometimes Happens That Pleasure Blows Anywhere It Damn Well Chooses.

The Carnal Contact Side By Side, From Heel To Armpit, Brings Shudders That Shake Up Nature Like The Flights Of Nocturnal Birds.