He read me Arthur Rimbaud's Le Bateau Ivre to awaken my freedom, read me Baudelaire to contain my pain, read me Apollinaire to dilute my distress, read me Leconte de Lisle to rouse in me exaltations he called automatic, read me Saint-John Perse to take stock of the world in the rambling seaspray, he read Faulkner to show me the dark disorders in the head-depths of men...