noxious

I cannot love you, I detest you. Why do I return to you, for the thousandth time, to your friendly arms which part to caress my burning brow, their very contact extinguishing my fever! I know not your secret destiny. All that concerns you interests me. Tell me whether you are the dwelling-place of the Prince of Darkness. Tell me this, ocean… tell me (me alone, for fear of distressing those who have yet known nothing but illusion) whether the breath of Satan creates the tempests that fling your salty waters up to the clouds. You must tell me this because I should love to know that hell is so close to man.

I imagine myself covered with blood, broken but transfigured and in agreement with the world, both as prey and as a jaw of time, which ceaselessly kills and is ceaselessly killed.

The possession of knowledge does not kill the sense of wonder and mystery. There is always more mystery.