You are worried like a deaf-mute in love. Your poems are like a dull saw, pull the soul, not dividing it. Create – this is, after all – to share by entering something yours in someone else’s soul. Look: reading Merimee, I do not pull Carmen out of her glittering nest; it was formed indelibly; an artist has cut the soul having inserted the diamond. What did he do by that? He has gathered all for my soul: like this rapid proud image, even if it was to all the flashing of views, scattered among the crowds, musical memories, carving ornamentation, landscape, mood or sleep – if only it was like a gypsy Carmen by quality of impression. From crumbs they bake bread. From grains grapes are poured.