In reading, a lonely quiet concert is given to our minds; all our mental faculties will be present in this symphonic exaltation.

Poets don't finish poems, they abandon them.

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.

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

The poetic act consists of suddenly seeing that an idea splits up into a number of equal motifs and of grouping them; they rhyme.

The flesh is sad, alas, and I have read all the books.

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.