How slow life is, how violent hope is.
I sing the joy of wandering and the pleasure of the wanderer’s death.
In this mirror, I am enclosed a live and real as you. Imagine angels and not like the reflections.
One day One day I waited for myself I said to myself Guillaume it’s time you came So I could know just who I am I who know others.
I love men, not for what unites them, but for what divides them, and I want to know most of all what gnaws at their hearts.
Cubism is the art of depicting new wholes with formal elements borrowed not only from the reality of vision, but from that of conception.
It’s raining my soul, it’s raining, but it’s raining dead eyes.
To insist on purity is to baptize instinct, to humanize art, and to deify personality.
My, how beautiful is war! its songs, its leisure!
Without artists, the sublime idea men have of the universe would collapse with dizzying speed.
Twentieth pupil of the centuries knows its stuff and bird-changed this century like Jesus climbs the sky.
People quickly grow accustomed to being the slaves of mystery.
All the words I have to say have turned into stars.
My dreaming thoughts go barefoot in the evening.
Her eyes were dancing like those of angels.
My blue mask as a God puts on his sky.
My Autumn eternal O my spiritual season.
Even the automobiles have an air of antiquity here.
How slow life seems to me, how violent the hope of love can be.
Oh my shadow. Oh my ancient serpent.
At present, under the burden of canons and the burden of language’s deep complicity with countless atrocities, the very making of poems requires audacity. And if the audacity is well-intended, it requires a certain awkwardness as proof of its unrehearsed refusal to comply with silence.