No one ever lacks a good reason for suicide.

You've got to understand life, understand it when you're young.

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.

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

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

Waiting is still an occupation. It is having nothing to wait for that is terrible.

Life is pain and the enjoyment of love is an anesthetic.