I Love You On The Surface Of

My Wish Is That You May Be Loved To The Point Of Madness.

When Will The Arbitrary Be Granted The Place It Deserves In The Formation Of Works And Ideas?

The Eye Is Not Open When It Is Limited To The Passive Role Of A Mirror... If It Has Only The Capacity To Reflect.

Past And Future Monopolize The Poet’s Sensory And Intellectual Faculties, Detached From The Immediate Spectacle. These Two Philtres Become Utterly Clear The Moment One Stops Being Hypnotized By The Cloudy Precipitate Constituted By The World Of Today.

Beauty Is Like A Train That Ceaselessly Roars Out Of The Gare De Lyon And Which I Know Will Never Leave, Which Has Not Left. It Consists Of Jolts And Shocks, Many Of Which Do Not Have Much Importance, But Which We Know Are Destined To Produce One Shock, Which Does...the Human Heart, Beautiful As A Seismograph...beauty Will Be Convulsive Or Will Not Be At All.