I cannot speak for more than an hour exclusively about poetry. At that point, life itself takes over again.

Most of the earth's inhabitants work to get by. They work because they have to. They didn't pick this or that kind of job out of passion; the circumstances of their lives did the choosing for them. Loveless work, boring work, work valued only because others haven't got even that much, however loveless and boring - this is one of the harshest human miseries. And there's no sign that coming centuries will produce any changes for the better as far as this goes.

I'm fighting against the bad poet who is prone to using too many words.

Secret codes resound. Doubts and intentions come to light.

I have sympathy for young people, for their growing pains, but I balk when these growing pains are pushed into the foreground, when you make these young people the only vehicles of lifes wisdom.

And whatever I do will become forever what I've done.

Existentialists are monumentally and monotonously serious; they don't like to joke.