The Poet Is At The

In Paris, Everybody Wants To Be An Actor; Nobody Is Content To Be A Spectator.

Mirrors Would Do Well To Reflect A Little More Before Sending Back Images.

Without Opium, Plans, Marriages And Journeys Appear To Me Just As Foolish As If Someone Falling Out Of A Window Were To Hope To Make Friends With The Occupants Of The Room Before Which He Passes.

The Prettiest Dresses Are Worn To Be Taken Off.

The Poet Doesn't Invent. He Listens.