The Flesh Is Sad, Alas, And I

As For Me, Poetry Takes The Place Of Love, Because It Is Enamored Of Itself, And Because This Self-lust Has A Delightful Dying Fall In My Soul.

The Pure Work Implies The Disappearance Of The Poet As Speaker, Who Hands Over To The Words.

Paint, Not The Thing But The Effect Which It Produces.

The Poetic Act Consists Of Suddenly Seeing That An Idea Splits Up Into A Number Of Equal Motifs And Of Grouping Them; They Rhyme.

Everything That Is Sacred And That Wishes To Remain So Must Envelop Itself In Mystery.