A Man Who Wants To Mutilate Himself

I May Die Of Earthly Love, Or Of Devotion.

For A Long Time I Found The Celebrities Of Modern Painting And Poetry Ridiculous. I Loved Absurd Pictures, Fanlights, Stage Scenery, Mountebanks Backcloths, Inn-signs, Cheap Colored Prints; Unfashionable Literature, Church Latin, Pornographic Books Badly Spelt, Grandmothers Novels, Fairy Stories, Little Books For Children, Old Operas, Empty Refrains, Simple Rhythms.

Je Est Un Autre. (i Is Someone Else).

On The Blue Summer Evenings, I Will Go Along The Paths, And Walk Over The Short Grass, As I Am Pricked By The Wheat: Daydreaming I Will Feel The Coolness On My Feet. I Will Let The Wind Bathe My Bare Head. I Will Not Speak, I Will Have No Thoughts: But Infinite Love Will Mount In My Soul; And I Will Go Far, Far Off, Like A Gypsy, Through The Countryside - As Happy As If I Were A Woman. "sensation

But, Truly, I Have Wept Too Much! The Dawns Are Heartbreaking. Every Moon Is Atrocious And Every Sun Bitter.