I'm drowning in papers.

Sometimes I write quickly, sometimes I spend several weeks on a single poem. I would really love for readers not to be able to guess which of the poems took so much work!

I'm working on the world, revised, improved edition, featuring fun for fools blues for brooders, combs for bald pates, tricks for old dogs.

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.

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

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

All is mine but nothing owned, nothing owned for memory, and mine only while I look.