Poetry Is A Religion Without Hope, But

In Paris, Everybody Wants To Be An Actor; Nobody Is Content To Be A Spectator.

In Two Weeks, Despite These Notes, I Shall No Longer Believe In What I Am Experiencing Now. One Must Leave Behind A Trace Of This Journey Which Memory Forgets. One Must, When This Is Impossible, Write Or Draw Without Responding To The Romantic Solicitations Of Pain, Without Enjoying Suffering Like Music, Tieing A Pen To One's Foot If Need Be, Helping The Doctors Who Can Learn Nothing From Laziness.

The Actual Tragedies Of Life Bear No Relation To One's Preconceived Ideas. In The Event, One Is Always Bewildered By Their Simplicity, Their Grandeur Of Design, And By That Element Of The Bizarre Which Seems Inherent In Them.

We Are In A Period Of Such Individualism That One No Longer Speaks Of Disciples; One Speaks Of Thieves.

Anything Of Any Importance Cannot Help But Be Unrecognizable, Since It Bears No Resemblance To Anything Already Known.