Poetry is a religion without hope. The poet exhausts himself in its service, knowing that, in the long run, a masterpiece is nothing but the performance of a trained dog on very shaky ground.

Art is science in the flesh.

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

One is either judge or accused. The judge sits, the accused stands. Live on your feet.

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

Continue reading Proust. His magnificent intelligence is particularly fond of describing stupidity. Which is ultimately exhausting.

I have lost my seven best friends, which is to say God has had mercy on me seven times without realizing it. He lent a friendship, took it from me, sent me another.