There is a literature that does not reach the voracious
mass. It is the work of creators, issued from a real
necessity in the author, produced for himself. It expresses
the knowledge of a supreme egoism, in which laws wither away.

Every page must explode, either by profound heavy
seriousness, the whirlwind, poetic frenzy, the new, the
eternal, the crushing joke, enthusiasm for principles, or by
the way in which it is printed. On the one hand a tottering
world in flight, betrothed to the glockenspiel of hell, on
the other hand: new men. Rough, bouncing, riding on hiccups.
Behind them a crippled world and literary quacks with a mania
for improvement.


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