It's interesting how young poets think of death while old fogies think of girls.

Lost in my dreams, I somehow cross at the traffic signals, bumping into street lamps or people, yet moving onward, exuding fumes of beer and grime, yet smiling, because my briefcase is full of books and that very night I expect them to tell me things about myself I don't know.

I was always lucky in my bad luck.

No book worth its salt is meant to put you to sleep, it's meant to make you jump out of your bed in your underwear and run and beat the author's brains out.

He was a gentle and sensitive soul, and therefore had a short temper, which is why he went straight after everything with an ax.

As I helped him up, I felt him shake all over, so I asked him to forgive me, without knowing what for, but that was my lot, asking forgiveness, I even asked forgiveness of myself for being what I was, what it was my nature to be.

I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop.