I Am Nothing But A Corpse Now,

Time Had Not Faded My Memories (as I Had Prayed To God It Might), Nor Had It Healed My Wounds As It Is Said Always To Do. I Began Each Day With The Hope That The Next Day Would Be Better, My Recollections A Little Less Pointed, But I Would Awake To The Same Pain, As If A Black Lamp Were Burning Eternally Inside Me, Radiating Darkness.

Sometimes I Sensed That The Books I Read In Rapid Succession Had Set Up Some Sort Of Murmur Among Themselves, Transforming My Head Into An Orchestra Pit Where Different Musical Instruments Sounded Out, And I Would Realize That I Could Endure This Life Because Of These Musicales Going On In My Head.

Immersing Oneself In The Problems Of A Book Is A Good Way To Keep From Thinking Of Love.

I Think A Lot About The Poems I Wasn't Able To Write...i Masturbrated...solitude Is Essentially A Matter Of Pride; You Bury Yourself In Your Own Scent. The Issue Is The Same For All Real Poets. If You've Been Happy For Too Long, You Become Banal. By The Same Token, If You've Been Unhappy For A Long Time, You Lose Your Poetic Power...happiness And Poverty Can Only Coexist For The Briefest Time. Afterword Either Happiness Coarsens The Poet Or The Poem Is So True It Destroys His Happiness.

I Identify With My Culture, But I Am Happy To Be Living On A Tolerant, Intellectual Island Where I Can Deal With Dostoyevsky And Sartre, Both Great Influences For Me.