What am I doing here?
Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed.
I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.
Your memory and your senses will be nourishment for your creativity.
What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.
I shed more tears than God could ever have required.
All day long he was docile, intelligent, good, Though sometimes changing to a darker mood. He seemed hypocritical, could tell better lies, in the dark he saw dots of colors behind closed eyes, clenched fists, put his tongue out at his elder brother.
My wisdom is as spurned as chaos. What is my nothingness, compared to the amazement that awaits you?
I could never throw Love out of the window.
The poet makes himself a voyant through a long, immense reasoned deranging of all his senses. All the forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he tries to find himself, he exhausts in himself all the poisons, to keep only their quintessences.
It is wrong to say: I think. One ought to say: I am thought. I is someone else.
One evening I sat Beauty on my knees – And I found her bitter – And I reviled her.
Unhappiness was my god.
I found I could extinguish all human hope from my soul.
You will always be a hyena.
As I descended into impassable rivers I no longer felt guided by the ferrymen.
To whom shall I hire myself out? What beast should I adore? What holy image is attacked? What hearts shall I break? What lies shall I uphold? In what blood tread?
I went out under the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal.
Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics!
True life is elsewhere.