Stephane Mallarme

It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things.

As for me, Poetry takes the place of love, because it is enamored of itself, and because this self-lust has a delightful dying fall in my soul.

The pure work implies the disappearance of the poet as speaker, who hands over to the words.

The poetic act consists of suddenly seeing that an idea splits up into a number of equal motifs and of grouping them; they rhyme.

A soul trembling to sit by a hearth so bright, To exist again, it’s enough if I borrow from Your lips the breath of my name you murmur all night.