Poetry is as precise a thing as geometry.

Me and my books in the same apartment, like a gherkin in its vinegar.

My foregrounds are imaginary, my backgrounds real.

Better to work for yourself alone. You do as you like and follow your own ideas, you admire yourself and please yourself: isn’t that the main thing? And then the public is so stupid. Besides, who reads? And what do they read? And what do they admire?

Of all possible debauches, traveling is the greatest that I know; that's the one they invented when they got tired of all the others.

Talent is a long patience.

I go dreaming into the future, where I see nothing, nothing. I have no plans, no idea, no project, and, what is worse, no ambition. Something – the eternal ‘what’s the use?’ – sets its bronze barrier across every avenue that I open up in the realm of hypothesis.