Paint, Not The Thing But The Effect

There Is Only Beauty / And It Has Only One Perfect Expression / Poetry. All The Rest Is A Lie /except For Those Who Live By The Body, Love, And, That Love Of The Mind, Friendship. For Me, Poetry Takes The Place Of Love, Because It Is Enamored Of Itself, And Because Its Sensual Delight Falls Back Deliciously In My Soul.

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

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

The Reproach That Superficial People Formulate Against Manet, That Whereas Once He Painted Ugliness, Now He Paints Vulgarity, Falls Harmlessly To The Ground, When We Recognize The Fact That He Paints The Truth.

All Thoughts Emit A Throw Of Dice