There Is Also, In Any History, The

One Writes In Order To Feel.

I Think There Is A Choice Possible To Us At Any Moment, As Long As We Live. But There Is No Sacrifice. There Is A Choice, And The Rest Falls Away. Second Choice Does Not Exist. Beware Of Those Who Talk About Sacrifice.

I Am Haunted By Interrupted Acts, Introspective As A Leper, Enchanted By A Repulsive Clew, A Gross And Fugitive Movement Of The Limbs. Is This The Love That Shook The Lights To Flame?

The Process Of Writing A Poem Represents Work Done On The Self Of The Poet, In Order To Make Form.

We Sit Here, Very Different Each From The Other, Until The Passion Arrives To Give Us Our Equality, To Make Us Part Of The Play, To Make The Play Part Of Us.