Desire, desire which knows, we draw no advantage from our shadows except from some veritable sovereignties accompanied by invisible flames, invisible chains, which, coming to light, step after step, cause us to shine.

LONG LIVE...

This country is but a wish of the spirit, a counter-sepulcher.

In my country, tender proofs of spring and badly dressed birds are preferred to far-off goals.

Truth waits for dawn beside a candle. Window glass is neglected. To the watchful, what does it matter?

In my country, we don't question a man deeply moved.

There is no malignant shadow on the capsized boat.

A cool hello is unknown in my country.

We borrow only what can be returned increased.

There are leaves, many leaves, on the trees in my country. The branches are free to bear no fruits.

We don't believe in the good faith of the victor.

In my country, we say thank you.

I believe in the magic and authority of words.

You only fight well for causes you yourself have shaped, with which you identify—and burn.

Stop, shadow of my elusive beloved/ Image of enchantment that I most desire/ Beautiful illusion for whom I happily die/ Sweet fiction for whom I painfully live.

I am dead because I lack desire,
I lack desire because I think I possess,
I think I possess because I do not try to give,
In trying to give, you see that you have nothing,
Seeing that you have nothing, you try to give of yourself,
Trying to give of yourself, you see that you are nothing,
Seeing that you are nothing, you desire to become,
In desiring to become, you begin to live.