The Poet makes himself a seer through a long, vast and painstaking derangement of all the senses
What am I doing here?
Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics!
But the problem is to make the soul into a monster
I am alone in possessing a key to this barbarous sideshow.
I saw that all beings are fated to happiness: action is not life, but a way of wasting some force, an enervation. Morality is the weakness of the brain.