Look, I am living. On what? Neither childhood nor future lessens . . . . Superabundant existence wells in my heart.

Every happiness is the child of a separation it did not think it could survive.

A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it.

You darkness, that I come from, I love you more than all the fires that fence in the world.

I would like to sing someone to sleep, to sit beside someone and be there. I would like to rock you and sing softly and go with you to and from sleep. I would like to be the one in the house who knew: The night was cold. And I would like to listen in and listen out into you, into the world, into the woods. The clocks shout to one another striking, and one sees to the bottom of time. And down below one last, strange man walks by and rouses a strange dog. And after that comes silence. I have laid my eyes upon you wide; and they hold you gently and let you go when something stirs in the dark.

Of all my books, I find only a few indispensible.

May what I do flow from me like a river, no forcing and no holding back, the way it is with children.