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76 Artificial Paradise Before it reached his heart, the bullet that killed my father in a duel pierced a poem written for a woman. More could be said about romanticism. But not here. Today there are no more duels, and if by some extraordinary chance you were to happen upon a poem written for a woman, even if it were still smoldering, you would be as confused as a daschund in a yoga class. Writers outnumber readers. Not everything can be explained by the expression mal du siècle. The next step, I tell you, is that poetry will become pricelessly soporific. As you can imagine, this will be no easy task . . . Imbeciles, do not expect to understand the diction! Take my word for it: blue smoke is rising from our pipes; blonde tresses wave about in the maelstrom; I decide to go about my business having set aside one hour per day for gloomy existentialism. ...

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