No wreaths please - especially no hothouse flowers. Some common memento is better, something he prized and is known by: his old clothes - a few books perhaps.

History must stay open, it is all humanity.

Afraid lest he be caught up in a net of words, tripped up, bewildered and so defeated-thrown aside-a man hesitates to write down his innermost convictions.

But the sea which no one tends is also a garden

beauty’ is related not to ‘loveliness’ but to a state in which reality plays a part.

What can any of us do with his talent but try to develop his vision, so that through frequent failures we may learn better what we have missed in the past.

A poem is a small machine made of words. . .Its movement is intrinsic, undulant, a physical more than a literary character.