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

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

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

In this most Christian of worlds all poets are Jews.

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.

Don't you know no one can escape the power of creatures reaching out with breath alone?