A throw of the dice will never abolish chance.

A throw of the dice will never abolish chance.

Everything that is sacred and that wishes to remain so must envelop itself in mystery.

You don't make a poem with ideas, but with words.

A soul trembling to sit by a hearth so bright, To exist again, it’s enough if I borrow from Your lips the breath of my name you murmur all night.

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

The world exists to end up in a book.