Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep in exile?

I invented the colors of the vowels!--A black, E white, I red, O blue, U green--I made rules for the form and movement of each consonant, and, and with instinctive rhythms, I flattered myself that I had created a poetic language accessible, some day, to all the senses.

It is wrong to say: I think. One ought to say: I am thought. I is someone else.

I dreamed of Crusades, voyages of discovery that nobody had heard of, republics without histories, religious wars stamped out, revolutions in morals, movements of races and continents; I used to believe in every kind of magic. I began it as an investigation. I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.

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

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

The only unbearable thing is that nothing is unbearable.