Every poet depends upon generations who wrote in his native tongue; he inherits styles and forms elaborated by those who lived before him. At the same time, though, he feels that those old means of expression are not adequate to his own experience.

It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends

The partition separating life from death is so tenuous. The unbelievable fragility of our organism suggests a vision on a screen: a kind of mist condenses itself into a human shape, lasts a moment and scatters.

Consolation Calm down. Both your sins and your good deeds will be lost in oblivion.

You who think of us: they lived only in delusion... Know that we the People of the Book, will never die!

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

The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.