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

A true opium of the people is a belief in nothingness after death - the huge solace of thinking that for our betrayals, greed, cowardice, murders we are not going to be judged.

He returns years later, has no demands. He wants only one, most precious thing: To see, purely and simply, without name, Without expectations, fears, or hopes, At the edge where there is no I or not-I.

I imagine the earth when I am no more: Women's dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley. Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born, Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.

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

I am composed of contradictions, which is why poetry is a better form for me than philosophy

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.