C'était l'heure où l'essaim des rêves malfaisants Tord sur leurs oreillers les bruns adolescents. - Charles Baudelaire

Which one of us has not dreamed, on ambitious days, of the miracle of a poetic prose: musical, without rhythm or rhyme; adaptable enough and discordant enough to conform to the lyrical movements of the soul, the waves of revery, the jolts of consciousness?<p>Above all else, it is residence in the teeming cities, it is the crossroads of numberless relations that gives birth to this obsessional ideal.

There is no sweeter pleasure than to surprise a man by giving him more than he hopes for.

The immense appetite we have for biography comes from a deep-seated sense of equality.