Three or four threads may be agitated, like telegraph wires, at the same time, and if I were to tap them all I would reveal such a mixture of innocence and duplicity, generosity and calculation, fear and courage, I cannot tell the whole truth simply because I would have to write four journals at once.

I'm sick of my own romanticism!

Only when the poet and the scientist work in unison will we have living experiences and knowledge of the marvels of the universe as they are being discovered.

When we blindly adopt a religion, a political system, a literary dogma, we become automatons. We cease to grow.

But I lie. I embellish. My words are not deep enough. They disguise, they conceal. I will not rest until I have told of my descent into a sensuality which was as dark, as magnificent, as wild, as my moments of mystic creation have been dazzling, ecstatic, exalted.

Where the myth fails, human love begins. Then we love a human being, not our dream, but a human being with flaws.

We sit on the kitchen exchanging these diabolical outgrowths of overfertile minds.