I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.

Poetry involves the mysteries of the irrational perceived through rational words.

The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.

We all have such fateful objects -- it may be a recurrent landscape in one case, a number in another -- carefully chosen by the gods to attract events of specific significance for us: here shall John always stumble; there shall Jane's heart always break.

Don't cry, I'm sorry to have deceived you so much, but that's how life is.

There was a time in my demented youth When somehow I suspected that the truth About survival after death was known To every human being: I alone Knew nothing, and a great conspiracy Of books and people hid the truth from me.

I have never seen a more lucid, more lonely, better balanced mad mind than mine.