The World Was Made In Order To

The Flesh Is Sad, Alas, And I Have Read All The Books.

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.

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

Everything In The World Exists In Order To End Up As A Book.

I Have Made A Long Enough Descent Into The Void To Speak With Certainty. There Is Nothing But Beauty--and Beauty Has Only One Perfect Expression, Poetry. All The Rest Is A Lie.