Those horses must have been Spanish jennets, born of mares mated with a zephyr; for they went as swiftly as the wind, and the moon, which had risen at our departure to give us light, rolled through the sky like a wheel detached from its carriage...
Tear up that funeral shroud—you are going to smother yourself in it. I am beauty, I am youth, I am life—come to me, and together we will be Love itself....Our life together will flow by like a dream, and it will be as one perpetual kiss.
The public, which has been wrong before and is wrong now, can accept only demons and angels on the stage.
Angels' kisses must be like this; true paradise is not in heaven but on the lips of one's beloved.
Who can believe that there is no soul behind those luminous eyes?
Any man who does not have his inner world to translate is not an artist.