Reality Is Not Protected Or Defended By

Chaos Is The Score Upon Which Reality Is Written.

To The Man Whose Senses Are Alive And Alert There Is Not Even The Need To Stir From One's Threshold.

It Is Now The Fall Of My Second Year In Paris. I Was Sent Here For A Reason I Have Not Yet Been Able To Fathom. I Have No Money, No Resources, No Hopes. I Am The Happiest Man Alive. A Year Ago, Six Months Ago, I Thought I Was An Artist. I No Longer Think About It. I Am. There Are No More Books To Be Written, Thank God.

The Poet Speaks Adequately Only When He Speaks Somewhat Wildly... Not With Intellect Alone, But With Intellect Inebriated By Nectar.

Everybody Says Sex Is Obscene. The Only True Obscenity Is War.