Poorly prepared for the dignity of life, I barely keep up with the pace of the action imposed. Reality demands.

I like being near the top of a mountain. One can't get lost here.

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.

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

I'd have to be really quick to describe clouds - a split second's enough for them to start being something else.

Every beginning is only a sequel, after all, and the book of events is always open halfway through.

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