There is no road, the road is made by walking.

Beware of the community in which blasphemy does not exist: underneath, atheism runs rampant.

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

Between living and dreaming there is a third thing. Guess it.

The unpublished manuscript is like an uncon-fessed sin that festers in the soul, corrupting and contaminating it.

My soul is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches, its eyes wide open far-off things, and listens at the shores of the great silence.

Life is the path you beat while you walk it.