“All true language is incomprehensible, like the chatter of a beggar’s teeth.”

Written poetry is worth reading once, and then should be destroyed. Let the dead poets make way for others.

I do not like detached creation. Neither can I conceive of the mind as detached from itself. Each of my works, each diagram of myself, each glacial flowering of my inmost soul dribbles over me.

I abandon myself to the fever of dreams, in search for new laws.

Squander your riches far from this unfeeling body to which no season, either spiritual or sensual, makes any difference.

No one has ever written, painted, sculpted, modeled, built, or invented except literally to get out of hell.

Admittedly or not, conscious or unconscious, the poetic state, a transcendent experience of life, is what the public is fundamentally seeking through love, crime, drugs, war, or insurrection.

I see in the act of throwing the dice and of risking the affirmation of some intuitively felt truth, however uncertain, my whole reason for living.

Tragedy on the stage is no longer enough for me, I shall bring it into my own life.

The idea of a detached art, of poetry as a charm which exists only to distract our leisure, is a decadent idea and an unmistakable symptom of our power to castrate.

Cruelty signifies rigor, implacable intention and decision, irreversible and absolute determination.

There is nothing like an insane asylum for gently incubating death.

I call for actors burning at the stakes, laughing at the flames.

I cannot conceive any work of art as having a separate existence from life itself.

If our life lacks a constant magic it is because we choose to observe our acts and lose ourselves in consideration of their imagined form and meaning, instead of being impelled by their force.

In our present state of degeneration it is through the skin that metaphysics must be made to re-enter our minds.

It is not opium which makes me work but its absence, and in order for me to feel its absence it must from time to time be present.

The Alliance for Progress is an alliance between one millionaire and many beggars.

For one who knows me, I am one with him; for one who wants to know me, I am very near to him; and for one who does not know me, I am a beggar before him.

Make of the Silence your to-do tasks, of the compassion your wealth and of the meditation your beggar’s bowl.

Love is bitter and all there is, and that the rest is for the emotional beggars of the earth.

Nobody but a beggar chooses to depend chiefly upon the benevolence of his fellow-citizens.

In ease of body, peace of mind, all the different ranks of life are nearly upon a level and the beggar who suns himself by the side of the highway, possesses that security which kings are fighting for.

Modesty is of no use to a beggar.

True compassion is more than flinging a coin to a beggar; it comes to see that an edifice which produces beggars needs restructuring.