
Preface
France is going through a vulgar phase. Paris, the heart and power of universal stupidity. In spite of Moliere and Beranger, one would never have thought that France would go so far in the name of Progress. -Questions of art, terrae incognitae. The great man is a fool.
My book may have done some good. This doesn’t cause me distress. It may have done harm. This doesn’t make me rejoice.
The aim of poetry. This book was not written for my wives, my daughters or my sisters.
I have been accused of all the crimes I am telling you about. Amusement of hatred and scorn. The elegiac is sentimental twaddle. Et verbum Caro factum est. – Yet the poet has no part to play in that. Otherwise, he would be a mere mortal.
The devil. Original sin. Virtuous man. If desired, you could be the Tyrant’s favourite; it is harder to love God than to believe in him. For the people of this century, however, it is harder to believe in the Devil than to love him. Everyone serves him and no one believes it. The Devil’s sublime subtlety.
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