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.

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

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.

Don't try to rush things: for the cup to run over, it must first be filled.

Death is something we shouldn't fear because, while we are, death isn't, and when death is, we aren't.

The unpublished manuscript is like an uncon-fessed sin that festers in the soul, corrupting and contaminating it.

The only living language is the language in which we think and have our being.