A poet has no private life to speak of. He uses his feelings, which then, like acids, release meanings from his own and from others’ bodies, filtering out the essential materials from which he creates his poems, volatile non-existent objects. And then from all of that, something that reminds one of life.
There is no doubt that the artist can only win recognition before posterity in the first and the last place through his works, but it is equally doubtless that if literary history thinks in a truly historical kind of way, the life of a writer must also be seen as one of his works: the writer is not only the paper printed full of text, he is also the symbolic flower and fruit of history, his body, his illnesses, his human struggles are works no less than his poems or his plays.
The most primal principle of life is theatrical: the jellyfish in the fairylike-fatal underworld of the sea, the coconut periwigs in the Gothic fan-towers of palms, the fetid head of an embryo at the end of the umbilical cord, jasmine, horseradish, sicknesses: these are all theatrical, colorful, simulating and subterfuges. Not lies, just masks, mimics. That is what history is too; that is the darkest instinct of life. That and art. The darkest and also the loneliest.