The Louvre Is A Morgue; You Go

If A Poet Has A Dream, It Is Not Of Becoming Famous, But Of Being Believed.

The Only Work Of Art Which Succeeds Is That Which Fails.

Mirrors Would Do Well To Reflect A Little More Before Sending Back Images.

Love Is Mainly An Affair Of Short Spasms. If These Spasms Disappoint Us, Love Dies. It Is Very Seldom That It Weathers The Experience And Becomes Friendship.

Mystery Has Its Own Mysteries, And There Are Gods Above Gods. We Have Ours, They Have Theirs. That Is What's Known As Infinity.