The Worst Tragedy For A Poet Is

Respect Movements, Flee Schools.

Poetry, Being Elegance Itself, Cannot Hope To Achieve Visibility... It Insists On Living Its Own Life.

If It Has To Choose Who Is To Be Crucified, The Crowd Will Always Save Barabbas.

I'm Not Willing Just To Be Tolerated. That Wounds My Love Of Love And Of Liberty.

When We Awake It Is The Animal, The Plant, That Thinks In Us. Primitive Thought Without The Least Disguise. We See A Terrible Universe, Because We See Clearly. A Little Later, Intelligence Introduces Its Impeding Contrivances. It Brings The Little Toys Which Man Invents In Order To Hide The Void. It Is Then That We Think We Are Seeing Clearly. We Attribute Our Uneasiness To The Miasmas Of The Brain As It Passes From Dream To Reality.