Isn't it time that these most ancient sorrows of ours grew fruitful? Time that we tenderly loosed ourselves from the loved one, and, unsteadily, survived: the way the arrow, suddenly all vector, survives the string to be more than itself. For abiding is nowhere.

Be forever dead in Eurydice-more gladly arise into the seamless life proclaimed in your song. Here, in the realm of decline, among momentary days, be the crystal cup that shattered even as it rang.

More belongs to marriage than four legs in a bed.

We are unutterably alone essentially, especially in the things most intimate and most important.

Irony: Don't let yourself be controlled by it, especially during uncreative moments.

It is good to be solitary, for solitude is difficult; that something is difficult must be a reason the more for us to do it.

and I circle ten thousand years long; And I still don't know if I'm a falcon, a storm, or an unfinished song