A Soul Trembling To Sit By A

Everything In The World Exists In Order To End Up As A Book.

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.

As For Me, Poetry Takes The Place Of Love, Because It Is Enamored Of Itself, And Because This Self-lust Has A Delightful Dying Fall In My Soul.

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

It Is In Front Of The The Paper That The Artist Creates Himself.