No one asked you to be happy. Get to work.

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

There are connoisseurs of blue just as there are connoisseurs of wine.

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.

One keeps forgetting old age up to the very brink of the grave.

The true traveler is he who goes on foot, and even then, he sits down a lot of the time.

I believe there are more urgent and honorable occupations than the incomparable waste of time we call suffering.