Bitter love, a violet with it's crown of thorns in a thicet of spiky passions, spear of sorrow, corolla of rage: how did you come to conquer my soul? What brought you?

While I'm writing, I'm far away; and when I come back, I've gone.

I want to do with you what the spring does with the cherry trees.

I love you as one loves certain dark things.

Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots?

It is not so much light that falls over the world extended by your body its suffocating snow, as brightness, pouring itself out of you, as if you were burning inside. Under your skin the moon is alive.

For me writing is like breathing. I could not live without breathing and I could not live without writing.