To Sister Louise Vanaen de
Voringhemher blue cornet turned to the North Seafor
To Sister Léonie Aubois d'Ashby Baouthe buzzing stinking
summer grassfor mothers' and children's fever.
To Luludemonwho 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
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
travelsbut 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
As a child, certain skies sharpened my optics: every character
nuanced my physiognomy. Phenomena stirredat 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 affectionsI
dream of a War, of right and might, of logic quite unforeseen.
It is as simple as a musical phrase.