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When you are seventeen you aren't really serious.
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I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am there.
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One evening I sat Beauty on my knees --And I found her bitter --And I reviled her.
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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.
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But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
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The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth.
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And again: No more gods! no more gods! Man is King, Man is God! -- But the great Faith is Love!
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I am the slave of my baptism. Parents, you have caused my misfortune, and you have caused your own.
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I is another.
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Life is the farce which everyone has to perform.
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What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.
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I understand, and not knowing how to express myself without pagan words, I’d rather remain silent
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Idle youth, enslaved to everything; by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.
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For a long time I found the celebrities of modern painting and poetry ridiculous. I loved absurd pictures, fanlights, stage scenery, mountebanks backcloths, inn-signs, cheap colored prints; unfashionable literature, church Latin, pornographic books badly spelt, grandmothers novels, fairy stories, little books for children, old operas, empty refrains, simple rhythms.
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I turned silences and nights into words.
What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.
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Only divine love bestows the keys of knowledge.