Art Is The Accomplice Of

Intelligence, That Sublimation Of The Sensibility, That Organ Of The Need To Know, Is Sterilized Sensibility.

An Imbecile Is Never Bored: He Contemplates Himself.

Nothing Exists Except By Virtue Of A Disequilibrium, An Injustice. All Existence Is A Theft Paid For By Other Existences; No Life Flowers Except On A Cemetery.

A Definition Is A Sack Of Flour Compressed Into A Thimble

Extraordinarily Excessive Sensuality It May Be .. But It All Comes Down To The Same Thing In The End, And One Means Is Surely As Good As Another, Since The End Obtained Is Always The Same. In Any Case The Exceptional, Endlessly Repeated, Is No Different Than The Banal; And Unceasing Recapitulation Can Add Nothing, In The End, To The Sum Of Experience. I Am Weary And Hopeless Three Times The Dupe. Why Have You Trained Me In The Shame Of Abominable Sins?