The World Was Made In Order To

To Define Is To Kill. To Suggest Is To Create.

The Reproach That Superficial People Formulate Against Manet, That Whereas Once He Painted Ugliness, Now He Paints Vulgarity, Falls Harmlessly To The Ground, When We Recognize The Fact That He Paints The Truth.

Poetry Is The Language Of A State Of Crisis.

As For Me, Poetry Takes The Place Of Love, Because It Is Enamored Of Itself, And Because This Self-lust Has A Delightful Dying Fall In My Soul.

I Have Made A Long Enough Descent Into The Void To Speak With Certainty. There Is Nothing But Beauty--and Beauty Has Only One Perfect Expression, Poetry. All The Rest Is A Lie.