You Have Comfort. You Don't

Without Opium, Plans, Marriages And Journeys Appear To Me Just As Foolish As If Someone Falling Out Of A Window Were To Hope To Make Friends With The Occupants Of The Room Before Which He Passes.

The Job Of The Poet (a Job Which Can't Be Learned) Consists Of Placing Those Objects Of The Visible World Which Have Become Invisible Due To The Glue Of Habit, In An Unusual Position Which Strikes The Soul And Gives Them A Tragic Force.

One Must Be A Living Man And A Posthumous Artist.

He Has The Manner Of A Giant With The Look Of A Child, A Lazy Activeness, A Mad Wisdom, A Solitude Encompassing The World.

Enough Of Clouds, Waves, Aquariums, Water-sprites And Nocturnal Scents; What We Need Is Music Of The Earth, Everyday Music..music One Can Live In Like A House.