What man of us has never felt, walking through the twilight or writing down a date from his past, that he has lost something infinite?

I gazed at every mirror on the planet, not one gave back my reflection.

On the floor, and hanging on to the bar, squatted an old man, immobile as an object. His years had reduced and polished him as water does a stone or the generations of men do a sentence.

The poverty of yesterday was less squalid than the poverty we purchase with our industry today. Fortunes were smaller then as well.

No one is a poet from eight to twelve and from two to six. Whoever is a poet is one always, and continually assaulted by poetry.

The Falklands thing was a fight between two bald men over a comb.

Happy are the beloved and the lovers and those who can live without love.