Reality is a prison, where one vegetates and always will.

Traveling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things: air, sleep, dreams, sea, the sky - all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it.

Give me the ready hand rather than the ready tongue.

Reality is a prison, where one vegetates and always will. All the rest - thought, action - is just a pastime, mental or physical. What counts then, is to come to grips with reality. The rest can go.

One must look for one thing only, to find many.

Every luxury must be paid for, and everything is a luxury, starting with being in this world.

When writing poetry, it is not that produces a bright idea, but the bright idea that kindles the fire of.