How can we live without the unknown before us?

A poem is the realization of love. . . .

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

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.

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

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.

Each act is virgin, even the repeated ones.