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

I unpetalled you, like a rose, to see your soul, and I didn't see it. But everything around -horizons of land and of seas-, everything, out to the infinite, was filled with a fragrance, enormous and alive.

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

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

The background reveals the true being and state of being of the man or thing. If I do not possess the background, I make the man transparent, the thing transparent.

Sharp nostalgia, infinite and terrible, for what I already possess.

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!