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

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.

And he absolutely had to find her at once to tell her that he adored her, but the large audience before him separated him from the door, and the notes reaching him through a succession of hands said that she was not available; that she was inaugurating a fire; that she had married an american businessman; that she had become a character in a novel; that she was dead.

There is nothing in the world that I loathe more than group activity, that communal bath where the hairy and slippery mix in a multiplication of mediocrity.

while the scientist sees everything that happens in one point of space, the poet feels everything that happens in one point of time.

There he stood, in the camouflage of sun and shade, disfigured by them and masked by his own nakedness.

I don't think in any language. I think in images.