I dreamt -- marvellous error! -- that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures.
There is no road, the road is made by walking.
Man would be "otherwise." That's the essence of the specifically human.
In order to write poetry, you must first invent a poet who will write it.
No one can shed light on vices he does not have or afflictions he has ever experienced.
Between living and dreaming there is a third thing. Guess it.