The spark of true poetry flashes when ideas are juxtaposed that no one has yet thought of bringing together.

There seemed nothing to do but live.

Sleep is no longer a healing bath, a recuperation of vital forces, but an oblivion, a nightly brush with annihilation.

For himself, then. For his idea of the world, a world in which men do not use shovels to beat corpses into a more convenient shape for processing.

Was it serious? I don't know. It certainly had serious consequences.

Words are coin. Words alienate. Language is no medium for desire. Desire is rapture, not exchange.

When we are stirred to lament the loss of the gods, it is more than likely the gods who are doing the stirring.