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past.
And I emerge from these victims’ tortures with the indescribable mark that
symbolizes life. Elemental creatures, dwarves, gnomes, goblins and sprites
surround me. I sacrifice animals to collect the blood I need for my witching
ceremonies. In my fury I offer up my soul in its own blackness. The mass
frightens me—me who carries it out. And the clouded mind dominates matter. The
beast bares its teeth and in the distance of the air gallop the horses of the
carnival floats.
    In my night I idolise the secret meaning of the world.
Mouth and tongue. And a horse free with loosed strength. I keep its hoof in
amorous fetishism. In my deep night a mad wind blows that brings me scraps of
screams.
    I am feeling the martyrdom of an untimely sensuality. In
the early hours I awake full of fruit. Who will come to gather the fruit of my
life? If not you and I myself? Why is it that things an instant before they
happen already seem to have happened? It’s because of the simultaneity of time.
And so I ask you questions and these will be many. Because I am a question.
    And in my night I feel the evil that rules me. What is
called a beautiful landscape causes me nothing but fatigue. What I like are
landscapes of dry and baked earth, with contorted trees and mountains made of
rock and with a whitish and suspended light. There, yes, a hidden beauty lies. I
know that you don’t like art either. I was born hard, heroic, alone, and
standing. And I found my counterpoint in the landscape without picturesqueness
and without beauty. Ugliness is my banner of war. I love the ugly with the love
of equals. And I defy death. I—I am my own death. And no one goes further. The
barbarian within me seeks the cruel barbarian outside me. I see in light and
dark I the faces of people flickering in the flames of the bonfire. I am a tree
that burns with hard pleasure. A single sweetness possesses me: complicity with
the world. I love my cross, which I painfully carry. It’s the least I can make
of my life: accept commiserably the sacrifice of the night.
    The strangeness takes me: so I open the black umbrella
and throw myself into a feast of dancing where stars sparkle. The furious nerve
inside me and that contorts. Until the early hours come and find me bloodless.
The early hours are great and eat me. The gale calls me. I follow it and tear
myself to pieces. If I don’t enter the game that unfolds in life I shall lose my
own life in a suicide of my species. I protect with fire the game of my life.
When the existence of me and of the world can no longer be borne by reason—
then I loose myself and follow a latent truth. Would I recognise the truth if it
were proven?
    I am making myself. I make myself until I reach the
pit.
    About me in the world I want to tell you about the
strength that guides me and brings me the world itself, about the vital
sensuality of clear structures, and about the curves that are organically
connected to other curved shapes. My handwriting and my circumvolutions are
potent and the freedom that blows in summer has fatality in itself. The
eroticism that belongs to whatever is living is scattered in the air, in the
sea, in the plants, in us, scattered in the vehemence of my voice, I write you
with my voice. And there is a vigor of the robust trunk, of roots buried in the
living earth that reacts giving great sustenance. I breathe the energy by night.
And all this in the realm of the fantastic. Fantastic: the world for an instant
is exactly what my heart asks. I am about to die and construct new compositions.
I’m expressing myself very badly and the right words escape me. My internal form
has been carefully purified and yet my bond with the world has the naked crudity
of free dreams and of great realities. I do not know prohibition. And my own
strength frees me, that full life that overflows me. And I plan nothing in my
intuitive work of living: I work with the indirect, the informal and the
unforeseen.
    Now in the early hours I am