Man flees suffocation.
Man who, with his incredible appetite, seals himself in without having done stocking up will free himself by his own hands, rivers suddenly risen.
Man, whose edge is grown dull through forebodings, who deforests his inner silence and arranges it into dramatic parts, the latter is the maker of bread.
To some, prison and death. To the others, the transhumance of the Word.
To exceed the limit of creation, to raise the blood with action, duty of all light.
We hold the ring where are chained side by side, here the fiendish nightingale, and there the angelic key.
On the jagged peaks of our bitterness, the dawn of conscience rushes forward and deposits its silt.
August mellowing. One dimension lasts through the ripening of the other. Hostile dimensions. Banished from the harness and the nuptials, I strike the iron of unseen hinges.”
–Char, Fureur et mystère (translation by Nikiibu, selection from the Nov/Dec. Reading)