One does not kill oneself for love of a woman, but because love - any love - reveals us in our nakedness, our misery, our vulnerability, our nothingness.

Remember, writing poetry is like making love: one will never know whether one's own pleasure is shared.

There is only one pleasure-that of being alive. All the rest is misery.

No one ever lacks a good reason for suicide.

If it were possible to have a life absolutely free from every feeling of sin, what a terrifying vacuum it would be.

Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi. (Death will come and it will have your eyes.)

But here's the worst part: the trick to life lies in hiding from those we hold most dear how much they mean to is; if not, we'd lose them.