what a man says, what a man does

One must consider not what a man says, but what he does. Not what an artist claims he wanted to do, but what he has done. It’s quite embarrassing how many things prevent them from clearly seeing what is. The complications of their minds obscure their senses. They seek in a work what isn’t there but should be, and forget to focus on what is. In art, how rarely one finds those few who have the ability to decisively love or reject. To love is to unite; to hate is to separate, and that is what one simply forgets to do when making decisions.

a tiny diamond

What a horrible experience to suffer again and again.

Sitting down to write the most beautiful poem in the world, feeling it inside of you, living it, struggling to contain the trembling beauty that overflows and transforms your entire being, elevating it, then… sitting there with just this bit of ice between your fingers or this ash!

Everything else has been consumed within. Outside, there is only the flames’ reflection. For the poet is an oven in which to burn up reality.

From all the raw emotion that one receives, sometimes a tiny diamond emerges with an incomparable clarity and brightness. An entire life reduced to a few images and phrases.


It is difficult for an artist to live without romanticism; if he doesn’t put it into his art, he puts it into his life; if he doesn’t put it into his life, he keeps it in his dreams. All that we fictitiously draw from cold reality is tainted with romanticism.

So one must choose between the dullness and vulgarity of a sentimental sensual life and a full heroic religion, or else slip into the dupery of dreams. Resembling a pitiful screen enclosing a single glimmer of a nonexistent jewel. Often the glimmer itself dies and then the screen only appears all the more pathetic.


Someone wanted to kill romanticism. He had a hard life, he needed to kill it.

But it came back under all kinds of other names and even in primitive naturalism.

Upon getting rid of romanticism one generally falls into a miserable apathy.

So, what one must do, which is very simple but extremely difficult, is to focus on the lyricism of reality. And to that art should limit its role, being unable to compete with reality but up to the task of capturing its lyricism, which artists alone are able to do. From this the following definition could be drawn: art is the collection of means used to capture the moving and touching lyricism of reality.

an eminently terrestrial thing

I have never had to save my pen, it has saved me.


A book’s success these days: a bird soaring one moment, then falling to disappear among the grass the next.


Someone said, “What influences us is what we love. What we take from others is what resembles us and thus already belongs to us.”
Hence in part it feeds the fire, but sometimes the fire would like to consume everything.


Art is an eminently terrestrial thing.

dreaming, thinking

I don’t think that dreaming is the strict opposite of thinking. What I do know inclines me to believe that it is, in sum, only a freer, more abandoned form.

Dream and thought are two sides of the same fabric–front and back–dream comprises the side where the weave is lusher but looser, thought the side where the weave is more austere but tighter.

When the imagination cools off, shrinks, defines and clarifies itself, the dream side turns over and lets the thought side appear. Yet both however have their own characteristics; they cannot be confused once you clearly distinguish them.


In order to progress thought needs to take shape in words, dream develops in images. Dream spreads and does not demand any effort to develop. Without the aid of words, thought does not advance.

Disciplined, out of necessity, thought follows a course and requires, in order to expand, a tension, a concentration of all available intellectual forces.

But it returns what it borrows, it is the mind’s healthy exercise; dream, to the contrary, exhausts it, it is the mind’s dangerous exercise.


The power of dream is innate out of necessity; whereas one must educate and strengthen that of thought.

But, if it is a question of poetry, where shall we go to find its precious, rare material if not to the dizzying edge of the precipice?

What is of more interest, the success of a conventional arrangement, more or less subtle and ingenius, of words, or the profound, mysterious echoes, from who knows where, which stir in the depths of the abyss?

The poet’s dream is the immense, finely meshed net hopelessly dragging through the waters’ depths in search of a problematic treasure.


Yet what characterizes thought is that it requires a (logical) sequence and that it always demands, for its own satisfaction, a conclusion. If I treat it the same as a dream, instead of prospering, like dreams, it gets bogged down, comes to a halt, and dies.