Without Sarcasm I Sink Into Chaos.

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.

Excuse My Absolute Freedom. I Refuse To Make A Distinction Between Any Of The Moments Of Myself.

Written Poetry Is Worth Reading Once, And Then Should Be Destroyed. Let The Dead Poets Make Way For Others.

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.

I Destroy Because For Me Everything That Proceeds From Reason Is Untrustworthy. I Believe Only In The Evidence Of What Stirs My Marrow, Not In The Evidence Of What Addresses Itself To My Reason. I Have Found Levels In The Realm Of The Nerve. I Now Feel Capable Of Evaluating The Evidence. There Is For Me An Evidence In The Realm Of Pure Flesh Which Has Nothing To Do With The Evidence Of Reason. The Eternal Conflict Between Reason And The Heart Is Decided In My Very Flesh, But In My Flesh Irrigated By Nerves.