on him, under him, with his mouth pressed to hers, he sang to her uncouth songs that moved through her body.

There is a close relationship between flowers and convicts. The fragility and delicacy of the former are of the same nature as the brutal insensitivity of the latter.

In reviewing my life, in tracing its course, I fill my cell with the pleasure of being what for want of a trifle I failed to be, recapturing, so that I may hurl myself into them as into dark pits, those moments when I strayed through the trap-ridden compartments of a subterranean sky

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

First of all, don't mix your hairpins up with mine! You .... Oh! All right, mix your muck with mine. Mix it! Mix your rags with my tatters! Mix it all up.

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

Betrayal is beautiful.