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

The only unbearable thing is that nothing is unbearable.

I'm intact, and I don't give a damn.

. . . be absolute moderne.

I may die of earthly love, or of devotion.

In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.

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