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.

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

A poem is the realization of love. . . .

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

How can we live without the unknown before us?

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.