I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.

The poet, therefore, is truly the thief of fire.
He is responsible for humanity, for animals even; he will have to make sure his visions can be smelled, fondled, listened to; if what he brings back from beyond has form, he gives it form; if it has none, he gives it none. A language must be found…of the soul, for the soul and will include everything: perfumes, sounds colors, thought grappling with thought

I is another.

Misfortune was my god.

Morality is the weakness of the brain.

Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics!