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To Sister Louise Vanaen de Voringhem—her blue cornet turned to the North Sea—for the shipwrecked.

To Sister Léonie Aubois d'Ashby Baou—the buzzing stinking summer grass—for mothers' and children's fever.

To Lulu—demon—who has kept a taste for oratories from the time of Les Amies and her incomplete education. For men!—to Madame ***.

To the adolescent that I was. To that holy old man, hermitage or mission.

To the spirit of the poor. And to a very high clergy.

As well, to every cult in every place of memorial cult and such events as require submission, following the aspirations of the moment or indeed our own serious vice.

This evening, to Circeto of the high ice, fat as fish, and illuminated like the ten months of red night—(her heart amber and spunk)—for my only prayer mute as those regions of night, and preceding bravuras more violent than that polar chaos.

At all cost and with every air, even in metaphysical travels—but no more then.





"The flag goes to the unclean landscape, and our patois smothers the drum.

"In the centers we shall feed the most cynical prostitution. We shall massacre logical revolts.

"To peppery and soaked lands!—in the service of the most monstrous industrial or military exploitations.

"Farewell to this, no matter where. Conscripts of good will, we shall have ferocious philosophy; ignoramuses for science, roués for comfort; and let the world go hang. This is the real march. Forward, let's go."





For Helen conspired ornamental sap in virgin shadows and impassive light in astral silence. The ardor of summer was confided to mute birds and the indolence requisite to a priceless mourning boat by souls of dead loves and subsiding perfumes.

—After the moment of the lumberwomen's air on the rumor of the torrent under the ruin of the wood, of cowbells in valley echoes, and cries of the steppes—

For the childhood of Helen trembled furs and shadows, and the breast of the poor, and the legends of heaven.

And her eyes and her dance superior even to precious flashes, to cold influences, to the pleasure of the décor and the hour unique.





As a child, certain skies sharpened my optics: every character nuanced my physiognomy. Phenomena stirred—at present, the eternal inflection of moments and the infinite of mathematics chase me through this world where I suffer every civil success, respected by strange children and enormous affections—I dream of a War, of right and might, of logic quite unforeseen.

It is as simple as a musical phrase.