It began as research. I wrote of silences, of nights, I scribbled the indescribable. I tied down the vertigo.

But the problem is to make the soul into a monster

...these poets here, you see, they are not of this world:let them live their strange life; let them be cold and hungry, let them run, love and sing: they are as rich as Jacques Coeur, all these silly children, for they have their souls full of rhymes, rhymes which laugh and cry, which make us laugh or cry: Let them live: God blesses all the merciful: and the world blesses the poets.

Then you'll feel your cheek scratched... A little kiss, like a crazy spider, Will run round your neck... And you'll say to me : "Find it !" bending your head - And we'll take a long time to find that creature - Which travels a lot.

And again: No more gods! no more gods! Man is King, Man is God! - But the great Faith is Love!

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

What an old maid I'm getting to be. lacking the courage to be in love with death!