We are the children of our landscape; it dictates behavior and even thought in the measure to which we are responsive to it.

Art—the meaning of the pattern of our common actions in reality. The cloth-of-gold that hides behind the sackcloth of reality, forced out by the pain of human memory.

To write a poem is like trying to catch a lizard without its tail falling off.

They say that if you get bored enough with calamity you can learn to laugh.

Life, the raw material, is only lived in potentia until the artist deploys it in his work.

Of women, the most we can say, not being Frenchmen, is that they are burrowing animals.

Every man is made of clay and diamond, and no woman can nourish both.