eface by Petrus Borel

‘Proud, splendid, brave – my dear adviser, Whose stubborn heart collides with what he loves’ – Henri de Régnier

‘To ye who Critic everything, to ye who mock and scoff, this little book of verse I bring – so, merci, bugger off!’ – François de Malherbe

A child must burble before it speaks with common ease: a poet must burble also, and I have dribbled after my fashion –

Behold! The metal that boils in the crucible must fling forth its slag: the poetry that boils in my heart has slung its dross –

Behold! Are then these Rhapsodies mere spittle and drool? Indeed. And why, knowing this, do I seek to please the public? Why do I not shut up, and quietly fade away?

Because I wish to part with these poems forever: I wish to appear as I am: I wish to hang them upon a wall, and turn away, for as long as I keep them close, so long will I return to look at them again. Now I shall give them away; for a new stage of life begins for the poet only after he has revealed his work and himself, and the long occupation of the heights is done. A painter needs his Show; a poet needs his Publication.

If you read my book, you shall know me. Poor it may be; and so I truly am. I have not written merely to write. There is no disguise. I do not dissemble. It is a collection of coincidence,

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