No one's serious at seventeen.
I wrote silences; nights; I recorded the unnameable.
-But I've just noticed that my mind is asleep.
Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics!
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.
True alchemy lies in this formula: ‘Your memory and your senses are but the nourishment of your creative impulse’.