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

I am alone in possessing a key to this barbarous sideshow.

It began as research. I wrote of silences, of nights, I scribbled the indescribable. I tied down the vertigo.

For a long time I found the celebrities of modern painting and poetry ridiculous. I loved absurd pictures, fanlights, stage scenery, mountebanks backcloths, inn-signs, cheap colored prints; unfashionable literature, church Latin, pornographic books badly spelt, grandmothers novels, fairy stories, little books for children, old operas, empty refrains, simple rhythms.

Stronger than alcohol, vaster than poetry, Ferment the freckled red bitterness of love!

But the problem is to make the soul into a monster

Only divine love bestows the keys of knowledge.