How can we live without the unknown before us?

Develop your legitimate strangeness.

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.

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.

For an inheritance to be really great, the hand of the defunct must not be seen.

What can be seductive about the eternal nothing is that the finest day is indifferently this one or any other like it.

A poem is the realization of love. . . .