notes fly so much farther than words. There is no other way to reach the infinite.

My ideas usually come not at my desk writing but in the midst of living.

I sleep with my feet on moss carpets, my branches in the cotton of the clouds.

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.’

The creative personality never remains fixed on the first world it discovers. It never resigns itself to anything.

Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.

I was stirred only like a leaf in the wind, that is all. . .