The poetic act consists of suddenly seeing that an idea splits up into a number of equal motifs and of grouping them; they rhyme.
In reading, a lonely quiet concert is given to our minds; all our mental faculties will be present in this symphonic exaltation.
The flesh is sad, alas, and I have read all the books.
Dreams have as much influences as actions.
You don't make a poem with ideas, but with words.
O naked flower of my lips, you lie! I await a thing unknown or perhaps, unaware of the mystery and your cries you give, O lips, the supreme tortured moans of a childhood groping among its reveries to sort out finally its cold precious stones.