I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.

Faith assuages, guides, restores.

I am alone in possessing a key to this barbarous sideshow.

You will always be a hyena.

The poet, therefore, is truly the thief of fire. He is responsible for humanity, for animals even; he will have to make sure his visions can be smelled, fondled, listened to; if what he brings back from beyond has form, he gives it form; if it has none, he gives it none. A language must be found…of the soul, for the soul and will include everything: perfumes, sounds colors, thought grappling with thought

But the problem is to make the soul into a monster

My wisdom is as spurned as chaos. What is my nothingness, compared to the amazement that awaits you?