When I went to that house of pleasure I didn’t stay in the front rooms where they celebrate, with some decorum, the accepted modes of love.
I went into the secret rooms and lounged and lay on their beds.
I went into the secret rooms considered shameful even to name. But not shameful to me—because if they were, what kind of poet, what kind of artist would I be? I’d rather be an ascetic. That would be more in keeping, much more in keeping with my poetry, than for me to find pleasure in the commonplace rooms.