The grass hasn’t even grown. He cannot be a Bead Peddler or a vagabond and an artist and at the same time a healthy and sane bourgeois. If you want drunkenness, accept the hangover too! If you want sun and beautiful fantasies, also accept dirt and boredom! Everything is within you, gold and clay, delight and sorrow, childish laughter and mortal anguish. Accept everything, don’t worry about anything, don’t try to avoid anything! You are not a bourgeois, you are not a Greek either, you are not harmonic and master of yourself, you are a bird in the middle of a storm. Let her roar! Let yourself go! How much have you lied? How many thousands of times, even in your books and poetry, have you pretended to be the harmonious and wise, the happy, the enlightened! The same have pretended to be the heroes when attacking in the war, while the entrails trembled! My God, how sinister and boastful is the man, especially the artist, especially the poet, especially me!
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