I remember writing once in "Intentions" that the more objective a work of art is in form, the more subjective it really is in matter--and that it is only when you give the poet a mask that he can tell you the truth.

But you have shown it fully in the case of the one artist whose personality was supposed to be a mystery of deep seas, a secret as impenetrable as the secret of the moon.
Paris is terrible in its heat.

I walk in streets of brass, and there is no one here.

Even the criminal classes have gone to the seaside, and the gendarmes yawn and regret their enforced idleness.

Giving wrong directions to the English tourists is the only thing that consoles them.
You were most kind and generous last month in letting me have a cheque--it gives me just the margin to live on and to live by.