It is wrong to say: I think. One ought to say: I am thought. I is someone else.
ONCE, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed. One evening I seated Beauty on my knees. And I found her bitter. And I cursed her.
Aphrodite’s thirst was never quenched; it was cruel and dreamy. It was certainly the most splendid kind of thirst.
Come back, come back, dear friend, only friend, come back. I promise to be good.
What will happen to the world when you leave it? Nothing, in any case, will remain of what is now visible.
Delivered to oblivion... growing and flowering with incense and weeds to the sullen whine of nasty flies... I loved deserts, burnt out orchards, faded boutiques... I dragged myself down stinking alleyways... General, if there’s an old cannon left, aim for the glass of splendid shops, into the living rooms... make the city eat its own dust.
Priests, professors, masters, you are wrong to turn me over to Justice. I have never belonged to this people. I have never been Christian. I am of the race that sang under torture. I do not understand your laws. I have no moral sense, I am a brute.
The white men are landing. Cannons! Now we must be baptized, get dressed, and go to work. My heart has been stabbed by grace. Ah! I hadn’t thought this would happen!
The Poet, therefore, is truly the thief of fire.
I saw that all living things were doomed, to bliss: that’s not living; it’s just a way to waste what we have, a drain.
The world progresses! Why shouldn’t it turn as well?
I am unknown; what does it matter? Poets are brothers. These lines believe; they love; they hope; and that is all. Dear Master, help me up a little. I am young. Hold out your hand to me.
This lofty thought proves I dreamt it!
While public funds evaporate in feasts of fraternity, a bell of rosy fire rings in the clouds.
Hire myself out to whom? What beast must I worship? What sacred images should I destroy? What hearts shall I break? What lies am I supposed to believe? March through whose blood?
I am hidden and I am not.
I will tear the veils from every mystery: mysteries of religion or of nature, death, birth, the future, the past, cosmogony, and nothingness. I am a master of phantasmagoria.
I will never possess my hand.
From castles of bone unknown music comes.
And think of me. It’s worth the loss of the world. I’m lucky to see my suffering ended. Alas: my life was little more than a few mild madnesses.
I looked on the disorder of my mind as sacred. Disaster was my God.