We know that the nature of genius is to provide idiots with ideas twenty years later. No doubt the number of people crass enough to reply exclusively on the former and scorn the latter are sufficient in themselves to explain the disfavor into which everything deriving from the senses has gradually fallen. I demand that my books be judged with utmost severity, by knowledgeable people who know the rules of grammar and of logic, and who will seek beneath the footsteps of my commas the lice of my thought in the head of my style.
Love is made by two people, in different kinds of solitude.
It can be in a crowd, but in an oblivious crowd. Light is meaningful only in relation to darkness, and truth presupposes error. It is these mingled opposites which people our life, which make it pungent, intoxicating. We only exist in terms of this conflict, in the zone where black and white clash. There are strange flowers of reason to match each error of the senses.