My heart is lost; the beasts have eaten it.

I sit in the sky like a sphinx misunderstood; My heart of snow is wed to the whiteness of swans; I hate the movement that displaces the rigid lines, With lips untaught neither tears nor laughter do I know.

If rape or arson, poison or the knife
Has wove no pleasing patterns in the stuff
Of this drab canvas we accept as life -
It is because we are not bold enough!

The beautiful is always bizarre.

Evil is done without effort, naturally, it is the working of fate; good is always the product of an art.

Evil is committed without effort, naturally, fatally; goodness is always the product of some art.