I should like the fields tinged with red, the rivers yellow and the trees painted blue. Nature has no imagination.
Viens, mon beau chat, sur mon coeur amoureux; Retiens les griffes de ta patte, Et laisse-moi plonger dans tes beaux yeux, Mêlés de métal et d'agate. Lorsque mes doigts caressent à loisir Ta tête et to...
Art dulls the terror of the void better than anything else.
Cum alţii prin iubire-ar vrea,să stăpânească viaţa ta,eu vreau s-o stăpânesc prin groază.
Do not look for my heart any more; the beasts have eaten it.
Do you come from Heaven or rise from the abyss, Beauty?
For every letter of creditors, write fifty lines on an extraterrestrial subject and you'll be saved.
He is at once a great lazybones, pitifully ambitious, and famous for unhappiness; for his entire life he has had practically nothing but half-baked ideas. The sun of laziness, which ceaselessly glows...
Hypocrite lecteur, – mon semblable, – mon frère !
It always seems to me that I should feel well in the place where I am not.
La Nature est un temple où de vivants piliers Laissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles; L'homme y passe à travers des forêts de symboles Qui l'observent avec des regards familiers.
La Terre est un gâteau plein de douceur.
Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,Luxe, calme et volupté.(L'Invitation au Voyage)
İşte onlar gibi biri, Venüs heykelinin altlığına büzülmüş, ölümsüz tanrıçaya bakıp gözyaşları döküyor... Gel gör ki insafsız Venüs, uzaklara bilmediğim bir şeylere bakıyor mermer gözleriyle.
—But why is she weeping? She, the perfect beauty, Who could put at her feet the conquered human race, What secret malady gnaws at those sturdy flanks? —She is weeping, fool, because she has lived! And...
Modernity signifies the transitory, the fugitive, the contingent, the half of art of which the other half is the eternal and the immutable.
Common sense tells us that the things of the earth exist only a little, and that true reality is only in dreams.
If the word doesn't exist, invent it; but first be sure it doesn't exist.
And yetto wine, to opium even, I preferthe elixir of your lips on which love flaunts itself;and in the wasteland of desireyour eyes afford the wells to slake my thirst.
Late night, and like a medal in the skyThe harvest moon was beaming down,And, like a river, the solemnityOf night arranged on the sleeping town. -
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