No one can shed light on vices he does not have or afflictions he has ever experienced.

Wayfarer, the only way is your footsteps, there is no other. Wayfarer, there is no way, you make the way as you go. As you go, you make the way and stopping to look behind, you see the path that your feet will never travel again. Wayfarer, there is no way- Only foam trails to the sea.

XXIX Traveler, there is no path. The path is made by walking. Traveller, the path is your tracks And nothing more. Traveller, there is no path The path is made by walking. By walking you make a path And turning, you look back At a way you will never tread again Traveller, there is no road Only wakes in the sea.

The truly erotic sensibility, in evoking the image of woman, never omits to clothe it. The robing and disrobing: that is the true traffic of love.

In order to write poetry, you must first invent a poet who will write it.

Those who deny the existence of the truth postulate the truth of their denial and plainly contradict themselves.

There is no one so bound to his own face that he does not cherish the hope of presenting another to the world.