Any knowledge that doesn't lead to new questions quickly dies out: it fails to maintain the temperature required for sustaining life.

My choices are rejections, since there is no other way, but what I reject is more numerous, denser, more demanding than before. A little poem, a sigh, at the cost of indescribable losses.

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

You can find the entire cosmos lurking in its least remarkable objects.

Out of every hundred people, those who always know better: fifty-two.

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

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