Above my cradle loomed the bookcase where/ Latin ashes and the dust of Greece/ mingled with novels, history, and verse/ in one dark Babel. I was folio-high/ when I first heard the voices.

In my mind it strolls, as well as in my apartment. A cat, strong, sweet and delightful.

Progress, this great heresy of decay.

A book is a garden, a party, a company by the way.

So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, be endlessly drunk.

In this horror of solitude, this need to lose his ego in exterior flesh, which man calls grandly the need for love.

With wine, poetry, or virtue as you choose. But get drunk.