For every poet it is always morning in the world; history a forgotten, insomniac night. The fate of poetry is to fall in love with the world in spite of history.
I try to forget what happiness was, and when that don't work, I study the stars.
She's a rare vase, out of a cat's reach, on its shelf.
How can I turn from Africa and live?
The classics can console. But not enough.
We look and see what we see in a mirror, and we believe it. That's important, the question of belief. The question is: Should we believe what we see in a mirror?