It Is No Use Painting The Foot

I Would Rediscover The Secret Of Great Communications And Great Combustions. I Would Say Storm. I Would Say River. I Would Say Tornado. I Would Say Leaf. I Would Say Tree. I Would Be Drenched By All Rains, Moistened By All Dews. I Would Roll Like Frenetic Blood On The Slow Current Of The Eye Of Words Turned Into Mad Horses Into Fresh Children Into Clots Into Curfew Into Vestiges Of Temples Into Precious Stones Remote Enough To Discourage Miners. Whoever Would Not Understand Me Would Not Understand Any Better The Roaring Of A Tiger.

The Weakness Of Most Men They Do Not Know How To Become A Stone Or Tree.

When I Turn On My Radio, When I Hear That Negroes Have Been Lynched In America, I Say That We Have Been Lied To: Hitler Is Not Dead; When I Turn On My Radio, When I Hear That Jews Have Been Insulted, Mistreated, Persecuted, I Say That We Have Been Lied To: Hitler Is Not Dead; When, Finally, I Turn On My Radio And Hear That In Africa Forced Labor Has Been Inaugurated And Legalized, I Say That We Have Certainly Been Lied To: Hitler Is Not Dead.

A Man Screaming Is Not A Dancing Bear. Life Is Not A Spectacle.

Beware, My Body And My Soul, Beware Above All Of Crossing Your Arms And Assuming The Sterile Attitude Of The Spectator, For Life Is Not A Spectacle, A Sea Of Griefs Is Not A Proscenium, And A Man Who Wails Is Not A Dancing Bear.