All poets write bad poetry. Bad poets publish them, good poets burn them.

Nothing is more fleeting than external form, which withers and alters like the flowers of the field at the appearance of autumn.

Yesterday's rose endures in its name, we hold empty names.

I seem to know all the cliches, but not how to put them together in a believable way. Or else these stories are terrible and grandiose precisely because all the cliches intertwine in an unrealistic way and you can't disentangle them. But when you actually live a cliche, it feels brand new, and you are unashamed.

Semiotics is in principle the discipline studying everything which can be used in order to lie. If something cannot be used to tell a lie, conversely it cannot be used to tell the truth: it cannot in fact be used "to tell" at all.

True learning must not be content with ideas, which are, in fact, signs, but must discover things in their individual truth.

We have a limit, a very discouraging, humiliating limit: death. That's why we like all the things that we assume have no limits and, therefore, no end. It's a way of escaping thoughts about death. We like lists because we don't want to die.