Morality is the weakness of the brain.

But the problem is to make the soul into a monster.

I will never possess my hand.

The white men are landing. Cannons! Now we must be baptized, get dressed, and go to work. My heart has been stabbed by grace. Ah! I hadn’t thought this would happen!

The northern lights rise like a kiss to the sea.

This lofty thought proves I dreamt it!

Priests, professors, masters, you are wrong to turn me over to Justice. I have never belonged to this people. I have never been Christian. I am of the race that sang under torture. I do not understand your laws. I have no moral sense, I am a brute.

I am unknown; what does it matter? Poets are brothers. These lines believe; they love; they hope; and that is all. Dear Master, help me up a little. I am young. Hold out your hand to me.

The world progresses! Why shouldn’t it turn as well?

The Poet makes himself a seer through a long, vast and painstaking derangement of all the senses.