One critic wrote . . . that my poems sounded as though they had been translated from the Hungarian. I don't know why, but somehow that made me feel quite lighthearted.

I like an ending that's both a door and a window.

Deftly they opened the brain of a child, and it was full of flying dreams.

The universe is a continuous web. Touch it at any point and the whole web quivers.

An old poet ought never to be caught with his technique showing.

A poet needs to keep his wilderness alive inside him.

Poetry is the enemy of the poem.