In Consciousness Dwells The Wondrous, With It

I See In The Act Of Throwing The Dice And Of Risking The Affirmation Of Some Intuitively Felt Truth, However Uncertain, My Whole Reason For Living.

We Do Not Die Because We Have To Die; We Die Because One Day, And Not So Long Ago, Our Consciousness Was Forced To Deem It Necessary.

All True Language Is Incomprehensible, Like The Chatter Of A Beggar's Teeth.

The Idea Of A Detached Art, Of Poetry As A Charm Which Exists Only To Distract Our Leisure, Is A Decadent Idea And An Unmistakable Symptom Of Our Power To Castrate.

I Am Stigmatized By A Living Death In Which Real Death Holds No Terrors For Me.