...with the end of my breath, which is the beginning of yours.

Trust in the inexhaustible character of the murmur.

No rules exist, and examples are simply life-savers answering the appeals of rules making vain attempts to exist.

It will in the end, be admitted that everything, in effect is an image and that the least object which has no symbolic role assigned to it is capable of standing for absolutely anything.

Past and future monopolize the poet’s sensory and intellectual faculties, detached from the immediate spectacle. These two philtres become utterly clear the moment one stops being hypnotized by the cloudy precipitate constituted by the world of today.

May night continue to fall upon the orchestra

What is admirable about the fantastic is that there is no longer anything fantastic: there is only the real.