True villains are extremely photogenic.

The final belief is to believe in a fiction, which you know to be a fiction, there being nothing else. The exquisite truth is to know that it is a fiction and that you believe in it willingly.

Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.

It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.

All the great things have been denied and we live in an intricacy of new and local mythologies, political, economic, poetic, which are asserted with an ever-enlarging incoherence.

Imagination applied to the whole world is vapid in comparison to imagination applied to a detail.

For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.