In reading, a lonely quiet concert is given to our minds; all our mental faculties will be present in this symphonic exaltation.

Everything that is sacred and that wishes to remain so must envelop itself in mystery.

The pure work implies the disappearance of the poet as speaker, who hands over to the words.

In reading, a lonely quiet concert is given to our minds; all our mental faculties will be present in this symphonic exaltation.

Yes, I know, we are merely empty forms of matter, but we are indeed sublime in having invented God and our soul. So sublime, my friend, that I want to gaze upon matter, fully conscious that it exists, and yet launching itself madly into Dream, despite its knowledge that Dream has no existence, extolling the Soul and all the divine impressions of that kind which have collected within us from the beginning of time and proclaiming, in the face of the Void which is truth, these glorious lies!

The world exists to end up in a book.

Poets don't finish poems, they abandon them.