I have a piece of great and sad news to tell you: I am dead.

Poetry, being elegance itself, cannot hope to achieve visibility... It insists on living its own life.

My method is simple: not to bother about poetry. It must come of its own accord. Merely whispering its name drives it away.

Lying is the only art form that the public sanctions and instinctively prefers to reality.

Wealth is an inborn attitude of mind, like poverty. The pauper who has made his pile may flaunt his spoils, but cannot wear them plausibly.

In exiling myself I am not exiling a monster, but a man whom society will not allow to live, since it considers one of the mysterious cogs in God's masterpiece to be a mistake.

Mirrors should think longer before they reflect.