Poetry Is The Language Of A State

The Reproach That Superficial People Formulate Against Manet, That Whereas Once He Painted Ugliness, Now He Paints Vulgarity, Falls Harmlessly To The Ground, When We Recognize The Fact That He Paints The Truth.

The World Was Made In Order To Result In A Beautiful Book.

In Reading, A Lonely Quiet Concert Is Given To Our Minds; All Our Mental Faculties Will Be Present In This Symphonic Exaltation.

The World Exists To End Up In A Book.

O Naked Flower Of My Lips, You Lie! I Await A Thing Unknown Or Perhaps, Unaware Of The Mystery And Your Cries You Give, O Lips, The Supreme Tortured Moans Of A Childhood Groping Among Its Reveries To Sort Out Finally Its Cold Precious Stones.