There is a world which poets cannot seem to enter. It is the world everybody else lives in. And the only thing poets seem to have in common is their yearning to enter this world.

In the end I would rather wonder than know

The industrial world destroys nature not because it doesn’t love it but because it is not afraid of it.

In our marginal existence, what else is there but this voice within us, this great weirdness we are always leaning forward to listen to?

Something unpronounceable followed by a long silence points out my life is becoming a landscape.

I like to read because it kills me.

It is the first experience you ever had of reading a decent poem: 'Oh, somebody else is lonely, too!