I may die of earthly love, or of devotion.

My wisdom is as spurned as chaos. What is my nothingness, compared to the amazement that awaits you?

The northern lights rise like a kiss to the sea

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.

It began as research. I wrote of silences, of nights, I scribbled the indescribable. I tied down the vertigo.

A man who wants to mutilate himself is certainly damned, isn't he?

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