The poet, by composing poems, uses a language that is neither dead nor living, that few people speak, and few people understand We are the servants of an unknown force that lives within us, manipulates us, and dictates this language to us.

Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying.

Silence moves faster when it's going backward.

It was the East that should have sent us missionaries.

Artists can no more speak about their work, than plants can speak about horticulture.

Do not take up cause against the inaccuracies printed about you. They are your protection.

There is always a period when a man with a beard shaves it off. This period does not last. He returns headlong to his beard.