My hapless peers with their lofty dreams--how I envy and despise them! I'm with the others, the even more hapless, who have no-one but themselves to whom they can tell their dreams and show what would be verses if they wrote them. I'm with those poor slobs who have no books to show, who have no literature beside their own soul, and who are suffocating to death due to the fact that they exist without having taken that mysterious, transcendental exam that makes one eligible to live.

I am nothing. I'll never be anything. I couldn't want to be something. Apart from that, I have in me all the dreams in the world.

To live strikes me as a metaphysical mistake of matter, a dereliction of inaction.

To have opinions is to sell out to youself. To have no opinions is to exist. To have every opinion is to be a poet.

I sometimes think that I enjoy suffering. But the truth is I would prefer something else.

I take with me the conscience of defeat as a victory banner.

Whenever someone tells me he dreamed, I wonder if he realizes that he has never done anything but dream.