The poet is one who is able to keep the fresh vision of the child alive.

At sixteen, Sabina took moon baths, first of all, because everyone else took sun baths, and second, she admitted, because she had been told it was dangerous.

The secret of life was Breath. That was what I always wanted my words to do, to Breathe.

What you burnt, broke, and tore is still in my hands. I am the keeper of fragile things and I have kept of you what is indissoluble.

Something is always born of excess: great art was born of great terror, great loneliness, great inhibitions, instabilities, and it always balances them.

The final lesson a writer learns is that everything can nourish the writer.

Ordinary life does not interest me.