The job of the poet (a job which can't be learned) consists of placing those objects of the visible world which have become invisible due to the glue of habit, in an unusual position which strikes the soul and gives them a tragic force.

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

The joy of youth is to disobey; but the trouble is that there are no longer any orders.

How our old friend [Michelangelo] of the Sistine would have loved to photograph his workers, perched on the fragile planks. Dali was right to say Leonardo only worked from photographs.

And now I have to confess the unpardonable and the scandalous. I am a happy man. And I am going to tell you the secret of my happiness. It is quite simple. I love mankind. I love love. I hate hate. I try to understand and accept.

The poet doesn't invent. He listens.

True realism consists in revealing the surprising things which habit keeps covered and prevents us from seeing.