For me, a poet is someone who is 'in contact.' Someone through whom a current is passing.

One reads thousands of books, of poets, modern and ancient, as one meets thousands of people. What remains of it all is hard to tell.

Passion such as hers is all consent, asking little in return. I had merely to enter a room where she was to see her face take on that peaceful expression of one who is resting in bed. If I touched her, I had the impression that all the blood in her veins was turning to honey.

It is not difficult to nourish admirable thoughts when the stars are present.

This morning it occurred to me for the first time that my body, my faithful companion and friend, truer and better known to me than my own soul, may be after all only a sly beast who will end by devouring his master.

In the evenings the art of building gave way to that of music, which is architecture, too, though invisible.

Any truth creates a scandal.