Do not be angry with the rain; it simply does not know how to fall upwards.
Some people, and I am one of them, hate happy ends. We feel cheated. Harm is the norm.
Poetry involves the mysteries of the irrational perceived through rational words.
Nostalgia in reverse, the longing for yet another strange land, grew especially strong in spring.
The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.
Imagination, the supreme delight of the immortal and the immature, should be limited. In order to enjoy life, we should not enjoy it too much.
I have rewritten – often several times – every word I have ever published. My pencils outlast their erasers.
I need you, the reader, to imagine us, for we don’t really exist if you don’t.
The more gifted and talkative one’s characters are, the greater the chances of their resembling the author in tone or tint of mind.
I have no desires, save the desire to express myself in defiance of all the world’s muteness.
The compensation for a death sentence is the knowledge of the exact hour when one is to die. A great luxury, but one that is well earned.
Don’t touch me; I’ll die if you touch me.
One is always at home in one’s past...
I should allow only my heart to have imagination; and for the rest rely on memory, that long drawn sunset of one’s personal truth.
Which arrow flies for ever? The arrow that has hit its mark.
All the seven deadly sins are peccadilloes but without three of them, Pride, Lust, and Sloth, poetry might never have been born.
Literature and butterflies are the two sweetest passions known to man.
There is only one school of literature – that of talent.
Poor Knight! he really had two periods, the firsta dull man writing broken English, the seconda broken man writing dull English.
Stirless, I stand at the window, and in the black bowl of the sky glows like a golden drop of honey the mellow moon.