I'm one-time-only to the marrow of my bones.

It's just not easy to explain to someone else what you don't understand yourself.

I cannot imagine any writer who would not fight for his peace and quiet.

The joy of writing. The power of preserving. Revenge of a mortal hand.

All the best have something in common, a regard for reality, an agreement to its primacy over the imagination.

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

In the language of poetry, where every word is weighed, nothing is usual or normal. Not a single stone and not a single cloud above it. Not a single day and not a single night after it. And above all, not a single existence, not anyone's existence in this world.