How Slow Life Is, How Violent Hope

I Love Men, Not For What Unites Them, But For What Divides Them, And I Want To Know Most Of All What Gnaws At Their Hearts.

It's Raining My Soul, It's Raining, But It's Raining Dead Eyes.

The Plastic Virtues: Purity, Unity, And Truth, Keep Nature In Subjection.

Artists Are, Above All, Men Who Want To Become Inhuman.

One Can't Carry One's Father's Corpse About Everywhere.