I live my life in widening circle That reach out across the world. I may not ever complete the last one, But I give myself to it. I circle around God, that primordial tower. I have been circling for thousands of years, And I still don't know: am I a falcon, A storm, or a great song? [I, 2]

Weren't you always distracted by expectation, as if every event announced a beloved? (Where can you find a place to keep her, with all the huge strange thoughts inside you going and coming and often staying all night.).

The hero is strangely akin to those who die young.

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

What do the contours of your body mean, laid out like the lines on a hand, so that I no longer see them except as fate?

Fame — the aggregate of all the misunderstandings that collect around a new name.

True singing is a different breath, about nothing.