Existence is an imperfection.

Evil is the product of the ability of humans to make abstract that which is concrete.

That God does not exist, I cannot deny, That my whole being cries out for God I cannot forget.

Time is too large, it can't be filled up. Everything you plunge into it is stretched and disintegrates.

Originally, poetry creates the myth, while the prose-writer draws its portrait.

I'm going to smile, and my smile will sink down into your pupils, and heaven knows what it will become.

I will not be modest. Humble, as much as you like, but not modest. Modesty is the virtue of the lukewarm.