Only divine love bestows the keys of knowledge.

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.

Eternity. It is the sea mingled with the sun.

What am I doing here?

O witches, O misery, O hate, to you has my treasure been entrusted! I contrived to purge my mind of all human hope. On all joy, to strangle it, I pounced with the strength of a wild beast. I called to the plagues to smother me in blood, in sand, misfortune was my God.

True alchemy lies in this formula: ‘Your memory and your senses are but the nourishment of your creative impulse’.

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