Idle youth, enslaved to everything; by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.
All day long he was docile, intelligent, good, Though sometimes changing to a darker mood. He seemed hypocritical, could tell better lies, in the dark he saw dots of colors behind closed eyes, clenched fists, put his tongue out at his elder brother.
Morality is the weakness of the mind.
I am alone in possessing a key to this barbarous sideshow.
Faith assuages, guides, restores.
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.