But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
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.
You will always be a hyena.
But the problem is to make the soul into a monster
. . . be absolute moderne.
Whose hearts must I break? What lies must I maintain? - Through whose blood am I to wade ?