You will always be a hyena. - Arthur Rimbaud

عندما نكون بالغي القوة، فمن منّا يتراجع؟، أو بالغي المرح، فمن يسقط من الهُزء؟ عندما عندما نكون شرّيرَين جدّاً، - فما سيفعلون بنا؟ تَبَرّجي، ارقُصي، اضحَكي، لن أقدرَ أن أرميَ الحُبَّ من النافذة أبداً

La vraie vie est absente. Nous ne sommes pas au monde.

My turn now. The story of one of my insanities.

For a long time I boasted that I was master of all possible landscapes — and I thought the great figures of modern painting and poetry were laughable.

What I liked were: absurd paintings, pictures over doorways, stage sets, carnival backdrops, billboards, bright-colored prints, old-fashioned literature, church Latin, erotic books full of misspellings, the kind of novels our grandmothers read, fairy tales, little children's books, old operas, silly old songs, the naive rhythms of country rimes.

I dreamed of Crusades, voyages of discovery that nobody had heard of, republics without histories, religious wars stamped out, revolutions in morals, movements of races and continents; I used to believe in every kind of magic.

I invented colors for the vowels! A black, E white, I red, O blue, U green. I made rules for the form and movement of every consonant, and I boasted of inventing, with rhythms from within me, a kind of poetry that all the senses, sooner or later, would recognize. And I alone would be its translator.

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