But The Problem Is To Make The

Je Est Un Autre. (i Is Someone Else).

Misfortune Was My God.

For A Long Time I Found The Celebrities Of Modern Painting And Poetry Ridiculous. I Loved Absurd Pictures, Fanlights, Stage Scenery, Mountebanks Backcloths, Inn-signs, Cheap Colored Prints; Unfashionable Literature, Church Latin, Pornographic Books Badly Spelt, Grandmothers Novels, Fairy Stories, Little Books For Children, Old Operas, Empty Refrains, Simple Rhythms.

It Began As Research. I Wrote Of Silences, Of Nights, I Scribbled The Indescribable. I Tied Down The Vertigo.

O Witches, O Misery, O Hate, To You Has My Treasure Been Entrusted! I Contrived To Purge My Mind Of All Human Hope. On All Joy, To Strangle It, I Pounced With The Strength Of A Wild Beast. I Called To The Plagues To Smother Me In Blood, In Sand, Misfortune Was My God.