Women talk about love and silent about lovers, men - on the contrary: Speaking of mistresses, but are silent about love.

An amazing observation: it is precisely for feelings that one needs time, not for thought. ... Feelings, obviously, are more demanding than thought.

I am a moonbeam, free to go whenever I choose.

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

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.

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.