You Walk On Corpses, Beauty, Undismayed.

I Am The Vampire At My Own Veins.

There Is No Such Thing As A Long Piece Of Work, Except One That You Dare Not Start.

The Vices Of Man, As Full Of Horror As One Might Suppose Them To Be, Contain The Proof (if In Nothing Else But Their Infinitely Expandable Nature) Of His Taste For The Infinite; Only, It Is A Taste That Often Takes A Wrong Turn.

Where One Should See Only What Is Beautiful, Our Public Looks Only For What Is True.

Here Comes The Time When, Vibrating On Its Stem, Every Flower Fumes Like A Censer; Noises And Perfumes Circle In The Evening Air.