Paintings Are Painted With Paint,

Paint, Not The Thing But The Effect Which It Produces.

The Pure Work Implies The Disappearance Of The Poet As Speaker, Who Hands Over To The Words.

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

In A Museum In London There Is An Exhibit Called "the Value Of Man": A Long Coffinlike Box With Lots Of Compartments Where They've Put Starch Phosphorus Flour Bottles Of Water And Alcohol And Big Pieces Of Gelatin. I Am A Man Like That.

The World Exists To End Up In A Book.