For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough)-they are experiences.

The purpose of life is to be defeated by greater and greater things.

Perhaps everything terrifying is deep down a helpless thing that needs our help.

Across the moment, aeons speak with aeons. More than we experienced has gone by.

To be here is immense.

No, no, one can imagine nothing in the world, not the least thing. Everything is composed of so many isolated details that are not to be foreseen. In one's imagining one passes over them and hasty as one is doesn't notice that they are missing. But realities are slow and indescribably detailed.

Animals see the unobstructed world with their whole eyes. But our eyes, turned back upon themselves, encircle and seek to snare the world, setting traps for freedom.