Everything in the world exists in order to end up as a book.

It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things.

It is in front of the the paper that the artist creates himself.

Paint, not the thing but the effect which it produces.

There is only beauty / and it has only one perfect expression / poetry. All the rest is a lie /except for those who live by the body, love, and, that love of the mind, friendship. For me, Poetry takes the place of love, because it is enamored of itself, and because its sensual delight falls back deliciously in my soul.

The pure work implies the disappearance of the poet as speaker, who hands over to the words.

All thoughts emit a throw of dice