Art = A Mad Search

Art Is Either A Plagiarist Or A Revolutionist.

Happiness And Work Rose Up Together With The Sun, Radiant Like It.

Why Work? The Gods Are There To Lavish Upon The Faithful The Good Gifts Of Nature.

In Art, All Who Have Done Something Other Than Their Predecessors Have Merited The Epithet Of Revolutionary; And It Is They Alone Who Are Masters.

The Missionary Is No Longer A Man, A Conscience. He Is A Corpse, In The Hands Of A Confraternity, Without Family, Without Love, Without Any Of The Sentiments That Are Dear To Us. Emasculated, In A Sense, By His Vow Of Chastity, He Offers Us The Distressing Spectacle Of A Man Deformed And Impotent Or Engaged In A Stupid And Useless Struggle With The Sacred Needs Of The Flesh, A Struggle Which, Seven Times Out Of Ten, Leads Him To Sodomy, The Gallows, Or Prison.