“A poet makes himself a visionary through a long, boundless, and systematized disorganization of all the senses. All forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he exhausts within himself all poisons, and preserves their quintessences. Unspeakable torment, where he will need the greatest faith, a superhuman strength, where he becomes all men the great invalid, the great criminal, the great accursed–and the Supreme Scientist! For he attains the unknown! Because he has cultivated his soul, already rich, more than anyone! He attains the unknown, and if, demented, he finally loses the understanding of his visions, he will at least have seen them! So what if he is destroyed in his ecstatic flight through things unheard of, unnameable: other horrible workers will come; they will begin at the horizons where the first one has fallen!”
* * *
““Love…no such thing.
Whatever it is that binds families and married couples together, that’s not love. That’s stupidity or selfishness or fear. Love doesn’t exist.
Self interest exists, attachment based on personal gain exists, complacency exists. But not love. Love has to be reinvented, that’s certain.”
* * *
“One single true word: it is come back. I want to be with you. If you listen to this, you will prove your courage and sincerity. Otherwise, I am sorry for you. I love you. I kiss you and we’ll see each other again”
* * *
“I understand, and not knowing how to express myself without pagan words, I’d rather remain silent”
Living inside Proust, Pessoa, Beckett and Rimbaud, as I do…and I really mean live …everything else is a mere front, a charade, a pretence, an act, a projection, a persona, a role…eventually made me realise that there is truly nothing else to say which can be worth saying. Rimbaud’s words above seal that so beautifully and he had the courage and vision to enact his silence. Outward silence, even inner quiet, is art in its purest and truest form, so long as one has been deafened by the gore and glory of music, emotion and dreams on the way to that silence. In the final reckoning, before and after we exist, so briefly, so bitterly, so sweetly in this world, we are pure disembodied silence – that is our true primal beauty, our unfathomable, imperceptible, deafening, exquisite, unbearable silence – the seemingly endless eons through which Calliope lays down her lyre and allows all men, all women, all artists and every poet simply to be, to exist in the eternal, swirling, all-encompassing silent beauty of souls, as they come and go from this world just like stars in the sky. That is the untouchable silence of my waking and sleeping dreams. How perfect, how inevitable, how beautiful. All my love and gratitude, outwards, to those who understand, who understood right from the beginning.