The Poet Is At The Disposal Of

Continue Reading Proust. His Magnificent Intelligence Is Particularly Fond Of Describing Stupidity. Which Is Ultimately Exhausting.

Elegance Ceases To Exist When It Is Noticed.

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 Art Of Genius Is Knowing How Far Out Is Too Far.

The Smell Of Opium Is The Least Stupid Smell In The World.