I Am Neither Virgin Nor Priest Enough

Take [stéphane] Mallarme. I Hold Him To Be The Greatest Of French Poets, And I Have Taken Some Time To Understand Him !

He Walked On In Silence, The Solitary Sound Of His Footsteps Echoing In His Head, As In A Deserted Street, At Dawn. His Solitude Was So Complete, Beneath A Lovely Sky As Mellow And Serene As A Good Conscience, Amid That Busy Throng, That He Was Amazed At His Own Existence; He Must Be Somebody Else's Nightmare, And Whoever It Was Would Certainly Awaken Soon.

A Man Is Involved In Life, Leaves His Impress On It, And Outside Of That There Is Nothing.

Everything Comes To Us From Others. To Be Is To Belong To Someone.

It Is Meaningless That We Are Born, It Is Meaningless That We Die.