Now I am an outcast. I loathe my country. The best thing for me is a drunken sleep on the beach.

Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics!

I wrote silences; nights; I recorded the unnameable.

Only divine love bestows the keys of knowledge.

...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.

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

Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed.