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

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

A poem is the realization of love. . . .

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.

How can we live without the unknown before us?

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