“In my night, I besiege my King. I rise up steadily and I wring his neck. He regathers his strength, I come back at him, and wring his neck another time. I shake him, shake him like an old prune tree, and his crown trembles on his head. But nevertheless, he is my King, I know it and he knows it, and it is quite certain that I am at his service.”

Mon Roi, in La nuit remue (1935)

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Henri Michaux8

painter, poet, writer 1899–1984

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Henri Michaux8

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