I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.

I believed that the way passed through Man, and that it was from there that destiny had to emerge.

Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots?

Your house sounds like a train at midday, the wasps buzz, the saucepans sing, the waterfall enumerates the deeds of the dew . . .

I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.

Eating alone is a disappointment. But not eating matter more, is hollow and green, has thorns like a chain of fish hooks, trailing from the heart, clawing at your insides. Hunger feels like pincers, like the bite of crabs; it burns, burns, and has no fur. Let us sit down soon to eat with all those who haven't eaten; let us spread great tablecloths, put salt in lakes of the world, set up planetary bakeries, tables with strawberries in snow, and a plate like the moon itself from which we can all eat. For now I ask no more than the justice of eating.

A child who does not play is not a child, but the man who doesn't play has lost forever the child who lived in him and who he will miss terribly.