And I am still alive-what though, my damnation is eternal. A man who deliberately mutilates himself is truly damned, is he not? I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am.

The poet, therefore, is truly the thief of fire. He is responsible for humanity, for animals even; he will have to make sure his visions can be smelled, fondled, listened to; if what he brings back from beyond has form, he gives it form; if it has none, he gives it none. A language must be found…of the soul, for the soul and will include everything: perfumes, sounds colors, thought grappling with thought

I may die of earthly love, or of devotion.

I wrote silences; nights; I recorded the unnameable.

Genius is the recovery of childhood at will.

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

I understand, and not knowing how to express myself without pagan words, I’d rather remain silent