“Whose hearts must I break? What lies must I maintain? – Through whose blood am I to wade ?”

Only divine love bestows the keys of knowledge.

The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth.

A thousand Dreams within me softly burn: From time to time my heart is like some oak Whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn.

I saw that all beings are fated to happiness: action is not life, but a way of wasting some force, an enervation. Morality is the weakness of the brain.

Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed.

You feel on your lips a kiss Fluttering, a tiny scrap of life.

As for me, I am intact; and I don’t care.

The poet makes himself a voyant through a long, immense reasoned deranging of all his senses. All the forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he tries to find himself, he exhausts in himself all the poisons, to keep only their quintessences.

I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.

Stronger than alcohol, vaster than poetry, Ferment the freckled red bitterness of love!

I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.

Now I am an outcast. I loathe my country. The best thing for me is a drunken sleep on the beach.

The Poet makes himself a seer through a long, vast and painstaking derangement of all the senses.

I could never throw Love out of the window.

True life is elsewhere.

To whom shall I hire myself out? What beast should I adore? What holy image is attacked? What hearts shall I break? What lies shall I uphold? In what blood tread?

It is not flesh and blood, but heart which makes us fathers and sons.

She is handpicked by nature to bleed. Look, how she makes pain bow down and plead.

The Thracian people, like the bloodiest of the barbarians, being ever most murderous when it has nothing to fear.

And then writer in you is so homesick of pain, that you plead your wounds to bleed and ache.

Most gladly would I give the blood-stained laurel for the first violet which March brings us, the fragrant pledge of the new-fledged year.

Are you native to the land you are spilling blood on?

Even when the blood in my veins is the same as them, every cell in my body is against becoming like them. What a curse it is to hate the very thing that birth you.

I thought marriage was tough. Golf’s like going over Niagara Falls in a barrel! It’s a psychological game that gets into your blood.