The Eye Is Not Open When It

The Pure Playfulness Of Certain Wholly Whimsical Portions Of (charles) Cros’s Work Should Not Obscure The Fact That At The Center Of Some Of His Most Beautiful Poems A Revolver Is Leveled Straight At Us.

The Mind, Placed Before Any Kind Of Difficulty, Can Find An Ideal Outlet In The Absurd. Accommodation To The Absurd Readmits Adults To The Mysterious Realm Inhabited By Children.

Of All Those Arts In Which The Wise Excel, Nature's Chief Masterpiece Is Writing Well.

Perhaps I Am Doomed To Retrace My Steps Under The Illusion That I Am Exploring, Doomed To Try And Learn What I Should Simply Recognize, Learning A Mere Fraction Of What I Have Forgotten.

...with The End Of My Breath, Which Is The Beginning Of Yours.