Let us beware of common folk, of common sense, of sentiment, of inspiration, and of the obvious.

On the vaporization and the centralization of the Self. All is there.

I will drop into your chest like a vegetal ambrosia. I will be the grain that regenerates the cruelly plowed furrow. Poetry will be born of our intimate union. A god we shall create together, and we shall soar heavenward like sunbeams, perfumes, butterflies, birds, and all winged things.

The Poet is like the prince of the clouds, who haunts the tempest and laughs at the archer. Exiled on the ground in the midst of the jeering crowd, his giant's wings keep him from walking.

Common sense tells us that the things of the earth exist only a little, and that true reality is only in dreams.

Where are the dogs going? you people who pay so little attention ask. They are going about their business. And they are very punctilious, without wallets, notes, and without briefcases.

The habit of doing one's duty drives away fear.