I Can Barely Conceive Of A Type

The Son Will Run Away From The Family Not At Eighteen But At Twelve, Emancipated By His Gluttonous Precocity; He Will Fly Not To Seek Heroic Adventures, Not To Deliver A Beautiful Prisoner From A Tower, Not To Immortalize A Garret With Sublime Thoughts, But To Found A Business, To Enrich Himself And To Compete With His Infamous Papa.

Even If It Were Proven That God Didn't Exist, Religion Would Still Be Saintly And Divine.

Il Faut E Pater Le Bourgeois. One Must Astound The Bourgeois.

I Consider It Useless And Tedious To Represent What Exists, Because Nothing That Exists Satisfies Me. Nature Is Ugly, And I Prefer The Monsters Of My Fancy To What Is Positively Trivial.

A Silent Mouth Is Sweet To Hear.