...a carefree letting go of oneself, not a caution, but a wise blindness.

You darkness, that I come from, I love you more than all the fires that fence in the world, for the fire makes a circle of light for everyone, and then no one outside learns of you. But the darkness pulls in everything: shapes and fires, animals and myself, how easily it gathers them! - powers and people - and it is possible a great energy is moving near me. I have faith in nights.

Your preparation for the real world is not in the answers you’ve learned, but in the questions you’ve learned how to ask yourself.

We discover that we do not know our role; we look for a mirror; we want to remove our make-up and take off what is false and real. But somewhere a piece of disguise that we forgot still sticks to us. A trace of exaggeration remains in our eyebrows; we do not notice that the corners of our mouth are bent. And so we walk around, a mockery and a mere half: neither having achieved being nor actors.

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

We make our way through Everything like thread passing through fabric, giving shape to images that we ourselves do not know.

A birdsong can even, for a moment, make the whole world into a sky within us, because we feel that the bird does not distinguish between its heart and the world's.