The only peace, the only security, is in fulfillment.

The poem is the dream made flesh, in a two-fold sense: as work of art, and as life, which is a work of art.

The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware.

Side by side with the human race there runs another race of beings, the inhuman ones, the race of artists who, goaded by unknown impulses, take the lifeless mass of humanity and by the fever and ferment with which they imbue it turn this soggy dough into bread and the bread into wine and the wine into song.

When into the womb of time everything is again withdrawn chaos will be restored and chaos is the score upon which reality is written.

No matter how vast, how total, the failure of man here on earth, the work of man will be resumed elsewhere. War leaders talk of resuming operations on this front and that, but man's front embraces the whole universe.

It is no accident that propels people like us to Paris.