A Soul Trembling To Sit

I Have Made A Long Enough Descent Into The Void To Speak With Certainty. There Is Nothing But Beauty--and Beauty Has Only One Perfect Expression, Poetry. All The Rest Is A Lie.

The Poetic Act Consists Of Suddenly Seeing That An Idea Splits Up Into A Number Of Equal Motifs And Of Grouping Them; They Rhyme.

The Flesh Is Sad, Alas, And I Have Read All The Books.

You Don't Make A Poem With Ideas, But With Words.

Everything That Is Sacred And That Wishes To Remain So Must Envelop Itself In Mystery.