There shall be poets! When woman's unmeasured bondage shall be broken, when she shall live for and through herself, man--hitherto detestable--having let her go, she, too, will be poet! Woman will find the unknown! Will her ideational worlds be different from ours? She will come upon strange, unfathomable, repellent, delightful things; we shall take them, we shall comprehend them.

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.

Oh! If only we were naked now, and free to watch our protruding parts align; To whisper - both of us - in ecstasy!

A thousand Dreams within me softly burn

. . . be absolute moderne.

What is my nothingness to the stupor that awaits you?

I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.