No one has ever stepped twice into the same river. But did anyone ever step twice into the same book?

What is this gypsy passion for separation, this readiness to rush off when we've just met? My head rests in my hands as I realize, looking into the night that no one turning over our letters has yet understood how completely and how deeply faithless we are, which is to say: how true we are to ourselves.

One should write only those books from whose absence one suffers. In short: the ones you want on your own desk.

In this most Christian of worlds all poets are Jews.

Wings are freedom only when they are wide open in flight. On one's back they are a heavy weight.

And soon all of us will sleep under the earth, we who never let each other sleep above it.

My verses are my diary. My poetry is a poetry of proper names.