You Walk On Corpses, Beauty, Undismayed.

It Is At Once By Way Of Poetry And Through Poetry, As With Music, That The Soul Glimpses Splendors From Beyond The Tomb; And When An Exquisite Poem Brings One's Eyes To The Point Of Tears, Those Tears Are Not Evidence Of An Excess Of Joy, They Are Witness Far More To An Exacerbated Melancholy, A Disposition Of The Nerves, A Nature Exiled Among Imperfect Things, Which Would Like To Possess, Without Delay, A Paradise Revealed On This Very Same Earth.

We Love Women In Proportion To Their Degree Of Strangeness To Us.

Nature... Is Nothing But The Inner Voice Of Self-interest.

We Revel In The Laxness Of The Path We Take.

My Soul Travels On The Smell Of Perfume Like The Souls Of Other Men On Music.