We have become indifferent to content, and react, not even to form, but to technique, to technical efficiency itself.

For a country without a past is nothing, a word That, hardly spoken, loses its meaning, A perishable wall destroyed by flame, An echo of animal emotions.

A weak human mercy walks in the corridors of hospitals and is like a half-thawed winter.

I am not my own friend.Time cuts me in two.

I liked beaches, swimming pools, and clinics for there they were the bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh. I pitied them and myself, but this will not protect me. The word and the thought are over.

There was a time when only wise books were read helping us to bear our pain and misery. This, after all, is not quite the same as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics. And yet the world is different from what it seems to be and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.

Two attributes of a poet, avidity of the eye and the desire to describe that which he sees.