自己
The true artist creates his own world.
Je est un autre. Tant pis pour le bois qui se trouve violon, et nargue aux inconscients, qui ergotent sur ce qu'ils ignorent tout à fait!
Le Poète se fait voyant par un long, immense et raisonné dérèglement de tous les sens.
We are never the same with others as when we are alone. We are different, even when we are in the dark.
The poet must be a seer, make himself a seer.
The only obsession everyone wants: ‘love.’ People think that in falling in love they make themselves whole? The Platonic union of souls? I think otherwise. I think you’re whole before you begin. And the love fractures you. You’re whole, and then you’re cracked open.
We make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones.