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

The art of living is the art of knowing how to believe lies. The fearful thing about it is that, not knowing what truth may be, we can still recognize lies.

All sins have their origin in a sense of inferiority otherwise called ambition.

Love is the cheapest of religions.

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.

Childhood is not only the childhood we really had but also the impressions we formed of it in our adolescence and maturity. That is why childhood seems so long. Probably every period of life is multiplied by our reflections upon the next.

You don't remember days, you remember moments.