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.

My favorite mode of communication is in the world beyond: a dream, to see in a dream. My second favorite is correspondence.

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

Meanings are translatable. Words are untranslatable… More briefly – a word is translatable, its sound is not.

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

For the spell is older than experience. For the tale is older than the record.

In this most Christian of worlds all poets are Jews.