Literature is a vast forest and the masterpieces are the lakes, the towering trees or strange trees, the lovely, eloquent flowers, the hidden caves, but a forest is also made up of ordinary trees, patches of grass, puddles, clinging vines, mushrooms, and little wildflowers.

No one pays attention to these killings, but the secret of the world is hidden in them.

Poetry is the one thing that isn't contaminated, the one thing that isn't part of the game.

Dreams fade with morning light, Never a morn for thee, Dreamer of dreams, goodnight.

We all have to die a bit every now and then and usually it's so gradual that we end up more alive than ever. Infinitely old and infinitely alive.

The pain, or the memory of pain, that here was literally sucked away by something nameless until only a void was left. The knowledge that this question was possible: pain that turns finally into emptiness. The knowledge that the same equation applied to everything, more or less.

we interpret life at moments of the deepest desperation.