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.

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

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.

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.

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

Trust firmly in your luck, cling to your happiness, and dare to take risks.

Each act is virgin, even the repeated ones.