And nevertheless, when they watched him leave the house, this man they themselves had urged to conquer the world, then they were the ones left with the terror that he would never return. That was their life. Love, if it existed, was something separate: another life.

He shook my hand and said goodbye with a sentence that might have been either good advice or a threat: "Take good care of yourself.

He is ugly and sad, but he is all love.

Just because someone does not love you as you want, it does not mean that you do not love with all his being.

He repeated until his dying day that there was no one with more common sense, no stonecutter more obstinate, no manager more lucid or dangerous, than a poet.

Life is but a continual succession of opportunities for surviving.

There is always something left to love.