. . . Be Absolute Moderne.

It Is Wrong To Say: I Think. One Ought To Say: I Am Thought. I Is Someone Else.

O Seasons, O Castles, What Soul Is Without Flaws? All Its Lore Is Known To Me, Felicity, It Enchants Us All.

Idle Youth, Enslaved To Everything; By Being Too Sensitive I Have Wasted My Life.

The Poet, Therefore, Is Truly The Thief Of Fire. He Is Responsible For Humanity, For Animals Even; He Will Have To Make Sure His Visions Can Be Smelled, Fondled, Listened To; If What He Brings Back From Beyond Has Form, He Gives It Form; If It Has None, He Gives It None. A Language Must Be Found…of The Soul, For The Soul And Will Include Everything: Perfumes, Sounds Colors, Thought Grappling With Thought

I Found I Could Extinguish All Human Hope From My Soul.