The whole work looks very much like somebody's scrapbook, a decidedly good one, however, scissorings from the current literature of the last ten years, with a moderate infusion of extracts from earlier sources, […]
Forsooth, Narcissus: by the same token he was turned to a daffodil, and as he died for love of himself, so, if you remember, there was an old ill-favoured, precious-nosed, babber-lipped, beetle-browed, blear-eyed, slouch-eared slave that, looking himself by chance in a glass, died for pure hate.
Wow, did you see her deck that guy who pinched her?
I cannot resist citing, slightly out of context, another bit of Baudelaire: Satan s'est fait ingénu (Satan has made himself into an ingenue [Oeuvres Completes 640])
Satan s'est fait ingénu
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