“Life is the farce which everyone has to perform.”

Oh! If only we were naked now, and free to watch our protruding parts align; To whisper – both of us – in ecstasy!

Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics!

In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.

Morality is the weakness of the mind.

True alchemy lies in this formula: ‘Your memory and your senses are but the nourishment of your creative impulse’.

It began as research. I wrote of silences, of nights, I scribbled the indescribable. I tied down the vertigo.

And from that time on I bathed in the Poem Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk, Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam, A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down.

What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.

I understand, and not knowing how to express myself without pagan words, I’d rather remain silent.

Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep in exile?

I shed more tears than God could ever have required.

I found I could extinguish all human hope from my soul.

The only unbearable thing is that nothing is unbearable.

As I descended into impassable rivers I no longer felt guided by the ferrymen.

I went out under the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal.

Whose hearts must I break? What lies must I maintain? – Through whose blood am I to wade ?