If a poet has a dream, it is not of becoming famous, but of being believed.

It seems to me that invisibility is the required provision of elegance. Elegance ceases to exist when it is noticed.

The public only takes up yesterday as a stick to beat today.

People seek escape in myth by any means at their disposal, including drugs, alcohol, meditation, and lies.

The runner stopped dead, lost his balance, froze in one of those violent attitudes in which the photographers petrify living reality.

Everyone's pet is the most outstanding. This begets mutual blindness.

It is not inspiration; it is expiration.