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

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.

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.

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

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