In my case there was no first love. I began with the second.

A son is like a lopped off branch. As a falcon he comes when he wills and goes where he lists.

That is what poetry can do. It speaks to us of what does not exist, which is not only better than what exists, but even more like the truth.

In the end, nature is inexorable: it has no reason to hurry and, sooner or later, it takes what belongs to it. Unconsciously and inflexibly obedient to its own laws, it doesn't know art, just as it doesn't know freedom, just as it doesn't know goodness.

In my case there was no first love. I began with the second.

Go and try to disprove death. Death will disprove you, and that's all!

The fact is that previously they were simply dunces and now they've suddenly become nihilists.