Suddenly for no earthly reason I felt immensely sorry for him and longed to say something real, something with wings and a heart, but the birds I wanted settled on my shoulders and head only later when I was alone and not in need of words.

A masterpiece of fiction is an original world and as such is not likely to fit the world of the reader.

I still dwelled deep in my elected paradise--a paradise whose skies were the color of hell-flames--but still a paradise.

You lose your immortality when you lose your memory.

Human thought, flying on the trapezes of the star-filled universe, with mathematics stretched beneath, was like an acrobat working with a net but suddenly noticing that in reality there is no net.

If I correctly understand the sense of this succinct observation, our poet suggests here that human life is but a series of footnotes to a vast obscure unfinished masterpiece.

For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me.