Far away, our dreams have nothing to do with what we do. The wind carries the night, and passes on, aimless.

I don't decide to represent anything except myself. But that self is full of collective memory.

I believe in the power of poetry, which gives me reasons to look ahead and identify a glint of light.

I am from there. I am from here. I am not there and I am not here. I have two names, which meet and part, and I have two languages. I forget which of them I dream in.

When I passed the age of 50, I learned how to control my emotions.

We suffer from an incurable malady: Hope.

When a writer declares that his first book is his best, that is bad. I progress successively from book to book.