Paint, Not The Thing But The Effect

All Thoughts Emit A Throw Of Dice

Poetry Is The Language Of A State Of Crisis.

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

You Don't Make A Poem With Ideas, But With Words.