Hay Que Ser Absolutamente Moderno

I Turned Silences And Nights Into Words. What Was Unutterable, I Wrote Down. I Made The Whirling World Stand Still.

. . . Be Absolute Moderne.

O Witches, O Misery, O Hate, To You Has My Treasure Been Entrusted! I Contrived To Purge My Mind Of All Human Hope. On All Joy, To Strangle It, I Pounced With The Strength Of A Wild Beast. I Called To The Plagues To Smother Me In Blood, In Sand, Misfortune Was My God.

The Poet Makes Himself A Seer Through A Long, Vast And Painstaking Derangement Of All The Senses

It Is Wrong To Say: I Think. One Ought To Say: I Am Thought. I Is Someone Else.