…Perhaps this momentary life of ours is only the light that divides our infinite origin from our infinite end.

Literature is a state of culture, poetry is a state of grace, before and after culture.

Rodin picks a mushroom delighted, and shows it to Madame Rodin... "Look," he says excitedly, "and that takes but a single night! In one night all these are made, all these lamellas. That is good work."

I am not I. I am this one walking beside me whom I do not see, whom at times I manage to visit, and whom at other times I forget; who remains calm and silent while I talk, and forgives, gently, when I hate, who walks where I am not, who will remain standing when I die.

The urban man is an uprooted tree, he can put out leaves, flowers and grow fruit but what a nostalgia his leaf, flower, and fruit will always have for mother earth!

My only two weapons: time and silence.

I do not cut my life up into days but my days into lives, each day, each hour, an entire life.