Loving means getting rid of names.

The purpose of poetry is to restore to mankind the possibility to wonder.

Writers, you know, are the beggars of Western society.

Social criticism begins with grammar and the re-establishing of meanings.

If each of my words were a drop of water, you would see through them and glimpse what I feel: gratitude, acknowledgement.

Enormous and solid but swaying, beaten by the wind but chained, murmur of a million leaves against my window. Riot of trees, surge of dark green sounds. The grove, suddenly still, is a web of fronds and branches.

With great difficulty advancing by millimeters each year, I carve a road out of the rock. For millenniums my teeth have wasted and my nails broken to get there, to the other side, to the light and the open air. And now that my hands bleed and my teeth tremble, unsure in a cavity cracked by thirst and dust, I pause and contemplate my work. I have spent the second part of my life breaking the stones, drilling the walls, smashing the doors, removing the obstacles I placed between the light and myself in the first part of my life.