Unhappiness was my god.
What am I doing here?
I may die of earthly love, or of devotion.
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.
I am alone in possessing a key to this barbarous sideshow.
Life is the farce which everyone has to perform.