I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.

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

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.

A man who wants to mutilate himself is certainly damned, isn't he?

The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth.

Your memory and your senses will be nourishment for your creativity.

But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.