O Reason, Reason, Abstract Phantom Of The

Fear Of Error Which Everything Recalls To Me At Every Moment Of The Flight Of My Ideas, This Mania For Control, Makes Men Prefer Reason's Imagination To The Imagination Of The Senses. And Yet It Is Always The Imagination Alone Which Is At Work.

The Whole Fauna Of Human Fantasies, Their Marine Vegetation, Drifts And Luxuriates In The Dimly Lit Zones Of Human Activity, As Though Plaiting Thick Tresses Of Darkness. Here, Too, Appear The Lighthouses Of The Mind, With Their Outward Resemblance To Less Pure Symbols. The Gateway To Mystery Swings Open At The Touch Of Human Weakness And We Have Entered The Realms Of Darkness. One False Step, One Slurred Syllable Together Reveal A Man's Thoughts.

I Shall Always Rebel Against Any Attempt To Reduce A Human Being To A Kind Of Mannequin, Whose Deeds And Questions Would Be Comprehensible Like The Deeds And Gestures Of Monarchs Recorded Day After Day In Official Communiques. Six Months Of A Life Cannot Catalogue The Vitality, The Activity Of An Individual; Only Death Stops Development And Then, What Is Important Is The Overall Meaning Of A Life, Not The Details Of That Life, Edifying To Some, Scandalous To Others.

It Sometimes Happens That Pleasure Blows Anywhere It Damn Well Chooses.

Yes, I Read. I Have That Absurd Habit. I Like Beautiful Poems, Moving Poetry, And All The Beyond Of That Poetry. I Am Extraordinarily Sensitive To Those Poor, Marvelous Words Left In Our Dark Night By A Few Men I Never Knew.