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.

The poet never asks for admiration; he wants to be believed.

Poets don't draw. They unravel their handwriting and then tie it up again, but differently.

The poet doesn't invent. He listens.

The cinema is death at work.

I have seafoam in my veins, I understand the language of waves.

The ear disapproves but tolerates certain musical pieces; transfer them into the domain of our nose, and we will be forced to flee.