My friends tell me that I am an intruder, that I don't really write when I attempt poetry. But those of my friends who write in prose say that I'm no writer when I attempt prose. So really I don't know what to do, I'm in a quandary.

A book is a physical object in a world of physical objects. It is a set of dead symbols. And then the right reader comes along, and the words—or rather the poetry behind the words, for the words themselves are mere symbols—spring to life, and we have a resurrection of the word.

I cannot sleep unless I am surrounded by books.

What I'm really concerned about is reaching one person. And that person may be myself for all I know.

His life, measured in space and time, will take up a mere few lines, which my ignorance will abbreviate further.

Time is the tiger that devours me, but I am that tiger.

Writing is nothing more than a guided dream.