What comes into the world to disturb nothing merits neither attention nor patience

How did writing come to me? Like bird’s down on my windowpane, in winter. Just then there rose in the heart a struggle of firebrands, which has, still now, not ended.

A poem is the realization of love. . . .

To be a poet is to have an appetite for a certain anxiety which, when tasted among the swirling sum of things existent or forfeit, causes, as the taste dies, joy.

Imagination consists in expelling from reality several incomplete persons, and then using the magic and subversive powers of desire to bring them back in the form of one entirely satisfying presence.

Be gful to the man who cares nothing for your remorse. You are his equal.

Man is able to do what he is unable to imagine. His head trails a wake through the galaxy of the absurd.