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.

A poem is the realization of love. . . .

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

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

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.

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