Books, books, books. It was not that I read so much. I read and re-read the same ones. But all of them were necessary to me. Their presence, their smell, the letters of their titles, and the texture of their leather bindings.

To a poet, silence is an acceptable response, even a flattering one.

Be happy. It's one way of being wise.

When she raises her eyelids it's as if she were taking off all her clothes.

It's so curious: one can resist tears and 'behave' very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer... and everything collapses.

If I can't have too many truffles, I'll do without truffles.

I did not look for her, because I was afraid of dispelling the mystery we attach to people whom we know only casually.