Isn't it true that a pleasant house makes winter more poetic, and doesn't winter add to the poetry of a house? - Charles Baudelaire

Genius is childhood recovered at will.

The more a man cultivates the arts, the less he gets hard. There is an ever more sensible divorce between the spirit and the brute. Only the brute gets a good hard-on, and fucking is the lyricism of the masses. To fuck is to aspire to enter another, and the artist never pulls out of himself.

I am lovely, O mortals, like a dream of stone;
And my breast, where everyone is bruised in his turn,
Has been made to awaken in poets a love
That is eternal and as silent as matter.<p>I am throned in blue sky like a sphinx unbeknown;
My heart of snow is wed to the whiteness of swans;
I detest any movement displacing still lines,
And never do I weep and never laugh.