“I am the soul in limbo.”

“Perhaps my life is nothing but an image of this kind; perhaps I am doomed to retrace my steps under the illusion that I am exploring, doomed to try and learn what I simply should recognize, learning a mere fraction of what I have forgotten.”

“I myself shall continue living in my glass house where you can always see who comes to call, where everything hanging from the the ceiling and on the walls stays where it is as if by magic, where I sleep nights in a glass bed, under glass sheets, where who I am will sooner or later appear etched by a diamond.”

“Over and above the various prejudices I acknowledge, the affinities I feel, the attractions I succumb to, the events which occur to me and to me alone- over and above a sum of movements I am conscious of making, of emotions I alone experience- I strive, in relation to other men, to discover the nature, if not the necessity, of my difference from them. Is it not precisely to the degree I become conscious of this difference that I shall recognize what I alone have been put on this earth to do, what unique message I alone may bear, so that I alone can answer for its fate?”

“The sexual eagle exults he will gild the earth once morehis descending winghis ascending wing sways imperceptibly the sleeves of the peppermintand all the water's adorable undressDays are counted so clearlythat the mirror has yielded to a froth of frondsof the sky i see but one starnow around us there is only the milk describing its dizzy ellipsisfrom which sometimes soft intuition with pupils of eyed agaterises to poke its umbrella tip in the mud of the electric lightthen great reaches cast anchor stretch out in the depths of my closed eyesicebergs radiating the customs of all the worlds yet to comebron from a fragment of you fragment unkown and iced on the wingyour existence the giant bouquet escaping fr4om my armsis badly tied it didgs out walls unrolls the stairs of housesloses its leaves in the show windows of the streetto gether the news i am always leaving to gather the newsthe newspaper is glass today and if letters no longer arriveit's that the train has been consumedthe great incision of the emerald which gaave birth to the foliageis scarred for always the sawdust of blinding snowand the quarries of flesh are sounding along on the first shelfreversed on this shelfi take the impression of death and lifeto the liquid air”

“I insist on knowing the names, on being interested only in books left ajar, like doors; I will not go looking for keys.”

“The event from which each of us is entitled to expect the revelation of his own life's meaning-that event which i may not yet have found but on whose path I seek myself- is not earned by work.”