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For a long time I found the celebrities of modern painting and poetry ridiculous. I loved absurd pictures, fanlights, stage scenery, mountebanks backcloths, inn-signs, cheap colored prints; unfashionable literature, church Latin, pornographic books badly spelt, grandmothers novels, fairy stories, little books for children, old operas, empty refrains, simple rhythms.
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The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth.
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I am the slave of my baptism. Parents, you have caused my misfortune, and you have caused your own.
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What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.
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I is another.
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