I Prefer The People Who Eat Off

When I Think About Myself, My Thought Seeks Itself In The Ether Of A New Space. I Am On The Moon As Others Are On Their Balconies. I Participate In Planetary Gravitation In The Fissures Of My Mind.

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.

If I Commit Suicide, It Will Not Be To Destroy Myself, But To Put Myself Back Together Again. Suicide Will Be For Me Only One Means Of Violently Reconquering Myself, Of Brutally Invading My Being, Of Anticipating The Unpredictable Approaches Of God. By Suicide, I Reintroduce My Design In Nature, I Shall For The First Time Give Things The Shape Of My Will.

Squander Your Riches Far From This Unfeeling Body To Which No Season, Either Spiritual Or Sensual, Makes Any Difference.

I Would Like To Write A Book Which Would Drive Men Mad, Which Would Be Like An Open Door Leading Them Where They Would Never Have Consented To Go, In Short, A Door That Opens Onto Reality.