… the best poet is he who prepares our daily bread: the nearest baker who does not imagine himself to be a god. He does his majestic and unpretentious work of kneading the dough, consigning it to the oven, baking it in golden colours and handing us our daily bread as a duty of fellowship. And, if the poet succeeds in achieving this simple consciousness, this too will be transformed into an element in an immense activity, in a simple or complicated structure which constitutes the building of a community, the changing of the conditions which surround mankind, the handing over of mankind’s products: bread, truth, wine, dreams.
Do I live a life of simple consciousness, or do I live a life to prove and to protect?
It will never be enough.
Do I nourish others while remaining empty-handed with a few left-overs, or do I hand over bread, truth, wine, and dreams because I’m nourished by these products?
I desire to live the latter.