How quiet the writing, how noisy the printing.

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

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.

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

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.

What is the main thing in love? to know and to hide. To know about the one you love and to hide that you love. At times the hiding (shame) overpowers the knowing (passion). The passion for the hidden - the passion for the revealed.