A man should not love the moon. An ax should not lose weight in his hand. His garden should smell of rotting apples, And grow a fair amount of nettles.

Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.

Yet falling in love is not the same as being able to love.

What is poetry which does not save nations or people?

All of us yearn for the highest wisdom, but we have to rely on ourselves in the end.

I knew that I would speak in the language of the vanquished No more durable than old customs, family rituals, Christmas tinsel, and once a year the hilarity of carols.

What is this enigmatic impulse that does not allow one to settle down in the achieved, the finished? I think it is a quest for reality.