What do I care if you are good? Be beautiful! and be sad!
When an exquisite poem brings one's eyes to the point of tears, those tears are not evidence of an excess of joy, they are witness far more to an exacerbated melancholy, a disposition of the nerves, a nature exiled among imperfect things, which would like to possess, without delay, a paradise revealed on this very same earth.
Within the bottle's depths, the wine's soul sang one night. Drink wine, drink poetry, drink virtue.
What good is it to accomplish projects, when the project itself is enjoyment enough?
When I was a kid, I felt in my heart Ahsasin opposite: horror of life and ecstasy of life ...
Woman is natural, that is to say, abominable.
What I have always found most beautiful in the theatre, in my childhood, and still today, is lustre--a beautiful object, luminous, crystalline, complex, circular, symmetrical. However, I do not absolutely deny the value of dramatic literature. Only, I should like the actors to be mounted on high pattens, to wear masks more expressive than the human face, and to speak through megaphones.
When it meows, one scarcely hears it... It has not the need of words to speak the lengthiest phraseologies.
Women do not know how to separate the soul from the body.
What I say is that the supreme and singular joy of making love resides in the certainty of doing evil.
When old Winter puts his blank face to the glass, I shall close all my shutters, pull the curtains tight, and build me stately palaces by candlelight.
Women need whippings. Man can punish them by love. As their children. But at the same time provides for itself, the pain that will despise their loved ones.
What is annoying in love, is that it is a crime in which one cannot do without an accomplice.
Where are the dogs going? you people who pay so little attention ask. They are going about their business. And they are very punctilious, without wallets, notes, and without briefcases.
You are sitting and smoking; you believe that you are sitting in your pipe, and that your pipe is smoking you; you are exhaling yourself in bluish clouds. You feel just fine in this position, and only one thing gives you worry or concern: how will you ever be able to get out of your pipe?
What is art? Prostitution.
Where ever I am not is the place where I am myself.
You gave me your mud and I have turned it to gold.
What is exhilarating in bad taste is the aristocratic pleasure of giving offense.
Where one should see only what is beautiful, our public looks only for what is true.
You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it-it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk. But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.
We have psychologized like the insane, who aggravate their madness in struggling to understand it.
What is intoxicating about bad taste is the aristocratic pleasure of offensiveness.
Whether you come from heaven or hell, what does it matter, O Beauty!