Il dit : « Je n'aime pas les femmes. L'amour est à réinventer, on le sait. »
J'ai de mes ancêtres gaulois l'œil bleu blanc, la cervelle étroite, et la maladresse dans la lutte.
J'écrivais des silences, des nuits, je notais l'inexprimable. Je fixais des vertiges.
Le malheur a été mon dieu. Je me suis allongé dans la boue. Je me suis séché à l'air du crime. Et j'ai joué de bons tours à la folie.
On n'est pas sérieux, quand on a dix-sept ans.
La main à plume vaut la main à charrue. — Quel siècle à mains !
Mais, ô Femme, monceau d'entrailles, pitié douce.
© 2026 My French LLC
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