All thoughts emit a throw of dice
It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things.
To define is to kill. To suggest is to create.
In reading, a lonely quiet concert is given to our minds; all our mental faculties will be present in this symphonic exaltation.
The world was made in order to result in a beautiful book.
O naked flower of my lips, you lie! I await a thing unknown or perhaps, unaware of the mystery and your cries you give, O lips, the supreme tortured moans of a childhood groping among its reveries to sort out finally its cold precious stones.