Children and lunatics cut the Gordian knot which the poet spends his life patiently trying to untie.
History is a combination of reality and lies. The reality of History becomes a lie. The unreality of the fable becomes the truth.
The speed of a runaway horse counts for nothing.
The smell of opium is the least stupid smell in the world.
The poet doesn't invent. He listens.
Poetry, being elegance itself, cannot hope to achieve visibility... It insists on living its own life.