The Louvre Is A Morgue; You Go

Such Is The Role Of Poetry. It Unveils, In The Strict Sense Of The Word. It Lays Bare, Under A Light Which Shakes Off Torpor, The Surprising Things Which Surround Us And Which Our Senses Record Mechanically.

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.

Art Produces Ugly Things Which Frequently Become More Beautiful With Time. Fashion, On The Other Hand, Produces Beautiful Things Which Always Become Ugly With Time.

Expect Neither Reward Nor Beatitude. Return Noble Waves For Ignoble.

Good Music Resembles Something. It Resembles The Composer.