The true enemy of man is generalization.

In a room where people unanimously maintain a conspiracy of silence, one word of truth sounds like a pistol shot.

The purpose of poetry is to remind us how difficult it is to remain just one person, for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors, and invisible guests come in and out at will.

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

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

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

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.