1912

In poetry, physics, practical life, there is nothing ... that is any longer moored to a certainty, nothing that is forbidden, nothing that cannot be stood on its head and glorified. The indefinite, the uncertain, the paradoxical is the scarlet paradise of intellectual intoxication.

Anarchy? No. It is the triumph of discrimination, the beatification of paradox, the sanctification of man by man...

Nothing that lasts is of value ... That which changes perpetually lives perpetually. Incessant dying and renewing, incessant metamorphosis, incessant contradiction...

I desire as many personalities as I have moods ... I desire to be ephemeral, protean...

I find my greatest joy in my estrangements ... I desire to become unfamiliar to myself ... I cling to nothing, hope for nothing. I am a perpetual minute.