The truth, as the light, makes blind.

My dear friend, we mustn't give them even the slightest excuse to judge us! Otherwise, we end up in pieces.

Truth is not a virtue, but a passion. It is never charitable.

Once in the midst of a seemingly endless winter, I discovered within myself an invincible spring.

Sometimes, carrying on, just carrying on, is the superhuman achievement.

From the evening breeze to this hand on my shoulder, everything has its truth.

We know the surrealist solution: concrete irrationality, objective risk. Poetry is the conquest, the only possible conquest, of the 'supreme position', 'a certain position of the mind from where life and death, the real and the imaginary, the past and the future... cease to be perceived in a contradictory sense.'