In order to weep, I had descended to the realm of the dead themselves, to their secret chambers, led by the invisible but soft hands of birds down stairways which were folded up again as I advanced. I displayed my grief in the friendly fields of death, far from men: within myself.

It's the hour when night breaks away from the day, my dove, let me go.

I'm homosexual. How and why are idle questions. It's a little like wanting to know why my eyes are green.

Crimes of which a people is ashamed constitute its real history. The same is true of man.

Anyone who knows a strange fact shares in its singularity.

Creation is not a light-hearted game. The creator commits to a terrible adventure, which is to take up-on himself all of the dangers that his creatures run.

Poetry is the break (or rather the meeting at the breaking point) between the visible and the invisible.