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

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

What is my nothingness to the stupor that awaits you?

And from then on, I bathed in the Poem of the Sea, star-infused, and opalescent, devouring green azures

To whom shall I hire myself out? What beast should I adore? What holy image is attacked? What hearts shall I break? What lies shall I uphold? In what blood tread?

As I descended into impassable rivers I no longer felt guided by the ferrymen.

...I is another. If the brass wakes the trumpet, it’s not its fault. That’s obvious to me: I witness the unfolding of my own thought: I watch it, I hear it: I make a stroke with the bow: the symphony begins in the depths, or springs with a bound onto the stage. If the old imbeciles hadn’t discovered only the false significance of Self, we wouldn’t have to now sweep away those millions of skeletons which have been piling up the products of their one-eyed intellect since time immemorial, and claiming themselves to be their authors!