Life is so fluid that one can only hope to capture the living moment, to capture it alive and fresh ... without destroying that moment.

I am a winged creature who is too rarely allowed to use its wings. Ecstasies do not occur often enough.

I am apparently gentle, unstable, and full of pretenses. I will die a poet killed by the nonpoets, will renounce no dream, resign myself to no ugliness, accept nothing of the world but the one I made myself. I wrote, lived, loved like Don Quixote, and on the day of my death I will say: ‘Excuse me, it was all a dream,’ and by that time I may have found one who will say: ‘Not at all, it was true, absolutely true.’

You are the poet, you walk inside my dreams.

My diary seems to keep me whole.

When we blindly adopt a religion, a political system, a literary dogma, we become automatons. We cease to grow.

To love and to labor is the sum of living.