Every soul is a melody which needs renewing.
The flesh is sad, alas, and I have read all the books.
The pure work implies the disappearance of the poet as speaker, who hands over to the words.
Everything that is sacred and that wishes to remain so must envelop itself in mystery.
It is in front of the the paper that the artist creates himself.
In reading, a lonely quiet concert is given to our minds; all our mental faculties will be present in this symphonic exaltation.