To read a poem is to hear it with our eyes; to hear it is to see it with our ears.
I don’t believe that there are dangerous writers: the danger of certain books is not in the books themselves but in the passions of their readers.
To love is to undress our names.
Love is born at first sight; the friendship of a frequent and lengthy exchange.
A civilization that denies death ends by denying life.
Poetry, in the past, was the center of our society, but with modernity it has retreated to the outskirts. I think the exile of poetry is also the exile of the best of humankind.
We are condemned to kill time, thus we die bit by bit.
Love is the revelation of the other person’s freedom.
A glass pitcher, a wicker basket, a tunic of coarse cloth. Their beauty is inseparable from their function. Handicrafts belong to a world existing before the separation of the useful and the beautiful.
Man does not speak because he thinks; he thinks because he speaks. Or rather, speaking is no different than thinking: to speak is to think.
Contemporary man has rationalized the myths, but he has not been able to destroy them.
If we are a metaphor of the universe, the human couple is the metaphor par excellence, the point of intersection of all forces and the seed of all forms. The couple is time recaptured, the return to the time before time.
What distinguishes modern art from the art of other ages is criticism.
Revolt is the violence of an entire people; rebellion the unruliness of an individual or an uprising by a minority; both are spontaneous and blind. Revolution is both planned and spontaneous, a science and an art.
If each of my words were a drop of water, you would see through them and glimpse what I feel: gratitude, acknowledgement.
To love is to battle, to open doors. The world changes if two can look at each other and see.
Beyond myself, somewhere, I wait for my arrival.
Each time we try to express ourselves we have to break with ourselves.
It is always difficult to give oneself up; few persons anywhere ever succeed in doing so, and even fewer transcend the possessive stage to know love for what it actually is: a perpetual discovery, and immersion in the waters of reality, an unending re-creation.
Beyond happiness or unhappiness, though it is both things, love is intensity; it does not give us eternity but life, that second in which the doors of time and space open just a crack: here is there and now is always.