The poet makes himself a voyant through a long, immense reasoned deranging of all his senses. All the forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he tries to find himself, he exhausts in himself all the poisons, to keep only their quintessences.

What an old maid I'm getting to be. lacking the courage to be in love with death!

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

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

Life is the farce which everyone has to perform.

I wrote silences; nights; I recorded the unnameable.

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