All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.

For in me there have always been two fools, among others, one asking nothing better than to stay where he is and the other imagining that life might be slightly less horrible a little further on.

Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.

I always thought old age would be a writer’s best chance. Whenever I read the late work of Goethe or W. B. Yeats I had the impertinence to identify with it. Now, my memory’s gone, all the old fluency’s disappeared. I don’t write a single sentence without saying to myself, ‘It’s a lie!’ So I know I was right. It’s the best chance I’ve ever had.

The sky sinks in the morning, this fact has been insufficiently observed.

How hideous is the semicolon.

Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.