No one in my family has ever died of love. What happened, happened, but nothing myth-inspiring.

Though I may deny poets their monopoly on inspiration, I still place them in a select group of Fortune's darlings.

I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.

I'm old-fashioned and think that reading books is the most glorious pastime that humankind has yet devised.

When I pronounce the word Future, the first syllable already belongs to the past. When I pronounce the word Silence, I destroy it.

At the very beginning of my creative life I loved humanity. I wanted to do something good for mankind. Soon I understood that it isn't possible to save mankind.

Even boredom should be described with gusto. How many things are happening on a day when nothing happens?