The Man Who Fights Against His Own

All The Human And Animal Manure Which The World Wastes, If Returned To The Land, Instead Of Being Thrown Into The Sea, Would Suffice To Nourish The World.

He Who Contemplates The Depths Of Paris Is Seized With Vertigo. Nothing Is More Fantastic. Nothing Is More Tragic. Nothing Is More Sublime.

The Ode Lives Upon The Ideal, The Epic Upon The Grandiose, The Drama Upon The Real.

Sacrificing The Earth For Paradise Is Giving Up The Substance For The Shadow.

A Translation In Verse . . . Seems To Me Something Absurd, Impossible.