I seek and don’t find myself. I belong to chrysanthemum hours, neatly lined up in flowerpots.

A great emotion is too selfish ; it takes into itself all the blood of the spirit, and the congestion leaves the hands too cold to write. Three sorts of emotion produce great poetry - strong but quick emotions, seized upon for art as soon as they have passed, but not before they have passed ; strong and deep emotions in their remembrance along time after ; and false emotions, that is to say, emotions felt in the intellect. Not insincerity, but a translated sincerity, is the basis of all art.

Everything stated or expressed by man is a note in the margin of a completely erased text. From what's in the note we can extract the gist of what must have been in the text, but there's always a doubt, and the possible meanings are many.

Literature exists because the world isn't enough.

Sometimes, when I wake up at night, I feel invisible hands weaving my destiny.

I always live in the present. The future I can't know. The past I no longer have.

But I am not perfect in my way of putting things Because I lack the divine simplicity Of being only what I appear to be.