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.

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

I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.

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.

Only divine love bestows the keys of knowledge.

No one's serious at seventeen.

And I am still alive-what though, my damnation is eternal. A man who deliberately mutilates himself is truly damned, is he not? I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am.