I'm now making myself as scummy as I can. Why? I want to be a poet, and I'm working at turning myself into a seer. You won't understand any of this, and I'm almost incapable of explaining it to you. The idea is to reach the unknown by the derangement of all the senses. It involves enormous suffering, but one must be strong and be a born poet. It's really not my fault.

It was the voice of mad seas, roaring immense,/ That shattered your infant breast, too soft, too human.

Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep in exile?

...You have to pass an exam, and the jobs that you get are either to shine shoes, or to herd cows, or to tend pigs. Thank God, I don't want any of that! Damn it! And besides that they smack you for a reward; they call you an animal and it's not true, a little kid, etc.. Oh! Damn Damn Damn Damn Damn!

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

Oh! If only we were naked now, and free to watch our protruding parts align; To whisper - both of us - in ecstasy!

It is wrong to say: I think. One ought to say: I am thought. I is someone else.