So now, whenever I despair, I no longer expect my end, but some bit of luck, some commonplace little miracle which, like a glittering link, will mend again the necklace of my days.

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

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

I love my past, I love my present. I am not ashamed of what I have had, and I am not sad because I no longer have it.

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

To write is to pour one’s innermost self passionately upon the tempting paper, at such frantic speed that sometimes one’s hand struggles and rebels, overdriven by the impatient god which guides it - and to find, next day, in place of the golden bough that bloomed miraculously in that dazzling hour, a withered bramble and a stunted flower.

There are no ordinary cats.