O witches, O misery, O hate, to you has my treasure been entrusted! I contrived to purge my mind of all human hope. On all joy, to strangle it, I pounced with the strength of a wild beast. I called to the plagues to smother me in blood, in sand, misfortune was my God.

True alchemy lies in this formula: ‘Your memory and your senses are but the nourishment of your creative impulse’.

The wolf howled under the leaves And spit out the prettiest feathers Of his meal of fowl: Like him I consume myself.

But the problem is to make the soul into a monster

One evening I sat Beauty on my knees – And I found her bitter – And I reviled her.

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

Hay que ser absolutamente Moderno