Poetry is what happens when an anxiety meets a technique.
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.
A city becomes a world when one loves one of its inhabitants.
It is not love that is blind, but jealousy.
The realisation of one's own death is the point at which one becomes adult.
Truth is a woman. That is why it is enigmatic.