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.

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

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

A poet should leave traces of his passage, not proofs. Traces alone engender dreams.

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

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

How can we live without the unknown before us?