I’m beginning to know myself. I don’t exist. I’m the space between what I’d like to be and what others made of me. Just let me be at ease and all by myself in my room.
Give to each emotion a personality, to each state of mind a soul.
I was a poet animated by philosophy, not a philosopher with poetic faculties.
I don’t believe in the landscape.
Fraternity has subtleties.
Changing from the ghosts of faith to the spectres of reason is just changing cells.
I am tired of myself in every way. All things, deep down to the secret of their roots, are stained by the color of my weariness.
I’ve reached the point where tedium is a person, the incarnate fiction of my own company.
I want to be a work of art, at least in my soul, since I can’t be one in my body.
Whenever someone tells me he dreamed, I wonder if he realizes that he has never done anything but dream.
I enjoy wording. Words for me are tangible bodies, visible sirens, incarnate sensualities.
In the very corner of my soul there is an altar to a different god.
My curiosity sister of larks.
Art lies because it’s social.
Should you ask me if I’m happy, I’ll answer that I’m not.
There are metaphors more real than the people who walk in the street.
Oh salty sea, how much of your salt Is tears from Portugal?
Liberty is the possibility of isolation.
Sailing is necessary, living is not necessary.
All pleasure is a vice, for seeking pleasure is what everybody does in life, and the only dark vice is doing what everybody does.