A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses.

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

Without opium, plans, marriages and journeys appear to me just as foolish as if someone falling out of a window were to hope to make friends with the occupants of the room before which he passes.

You have comfort. You don't have luxury. And don't tell me that money plays a part. The luxury I advocate has nothing to do with money. It cannot be bought. It is the reward of those who have NO Fear or Discomfort.

The poet is at the disposal of the night. His role is humble, he must clean house and await its due visitation.

Love is mainly an affair of short spasms. If these spasms disappoint us, love dies. It is very seldom that it weathers the experience and becomes friendship.

Every day in the mirror I watch death at work.