Good day to you, my name is Basil Montague. I’m a lonely spirit, a lonely man, or whatever you prefer.

For sure, a free soul, a man of courage, a toxin in the social morality, no bravery, a bohemian, proud of it.

I’m a poet, and that’s why my scathing prelude; probably mine is the continuous research of verse to justify a universe of the multitude, where a multitude is nothing, I’m afraid. Too complex for a single soul, even if made of stanzas and verses.

I laugh when people talk about some laureate poets able to afford a life in poetry; they are fake, or those supposed poets have other providing for their lives, something untold. Poetry is just a virtue that doesn’t match with sordid trade.

In my case, I must confess that my poetry is a small part of my livelihood, but most of my being.

It’s out of the question that I’m poor, poverty of matters, but a richness of soul, an unconventional way of life as I already said.

What I do to live is a scramble of events that put a slice of bread on a bare table every day, it doesn’t matter. The only matter from now on is Trilby.

We are the same arcane page in an everyday diary. I must admit that after Trilby, mine is less mysterious.

The mystery that was embracing me, until that day, was revealed on a misty morning, finally able to remember, finally on track over a fantasy. 

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