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.

Love is the revelation of the other person's freedom.

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

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

Two opposing forces inhabit the poem: one of elevation or up-rooting, which pulls the word from the language: the other of gravity, which makes it return. The poem is an original and unique creation, but it is also reading and recitation: participation. The poet creates it; the people, by recitation, re-create it. Poet and reader are two moments of a single reality.

Grace is gratuitous; it is a gift.

Humankind is never what he is but the self he seeks.