The machinery of the world is far too complex for the simplicity of men.

The art of writing is mysterious, the opinions we hold are ephemeral.

Art is endless like a river flowing, passing, yet remaining.

It's a shame that we have to choose between two such second-rate countries as the USSR and the USA.

Poetry springs from something deeper; it's beyond intelligence.

There is no point in being overwhelmed by the appalling total of human sufferring; such a total does not exist. Neither poverty nor pain is accumulable.

Any time something is written against me, I not only share the sentiment but feel I could do the job far better myself. Perhaps I should advise would-be enemies to send me their grievances beforehand, with full assurance that they will receive my every aid and support. I have even secretly longed to write, under a pen name, a merciless tirade against myself.