Best thing to happen for a poet. A fine death, no? An impressive death.

Two aesthetics exist: the passive aesthetic of mirrors and the active aesthetic of prisms. Guided by the former, art turns into a copy of the environment's objectivity or the individual's psychic history. Guided by the latter, art is redeemed, makes the world into its instrument, and forges, beyond spatial and temporal prisons, a personal vision.

When I write, I do it urged by an intimate necessity. I don't have in mind an exclusive public, or a public of multitudes, I don't think in either thing. I think about expressing what I want to say. I try to do it in the simplest way possible.

Any life, however long and complicated it may be, actually consists of a single moment — the moment when a man knows forever more who he is.

Captivated by its discipline, humanity forgets and goes on forgetting that it is the discipline of chess players, not of angels.

I cannot walk through the suburbs in the solitude of the night without thinking that the night pleases us because it suppresses idle details, just as our memory does.

The flattery of posterity is not worth much more than contemporary flattery, which is worth nothing.