Time is rhythm: the insect rhythm of a warm humid night, brain ripple, breathing, the drum in my temple – these are our faithful timekeepers; and reason corrects the feverish beat.
Dear Jesus, do something.
We are most artistically caged.
Mind you, sometimes the angels smoke, hiding it with their sleeves, and when the archangel comes, they throw the cigarettes away: that’s when you get shooting stars.
I witness with pleasure the supreme achievement of memory, which is the masterly use it makes of innate harmonies when gathering to its fold the suspended and wandering tonalities of the past.
Her lips were like large crimson polyps.
Perhaps, somewhere, some day, at a less miserable time, we may see each other again.
Loneliness as a situation can be corrected, but as a state of mind it is an incurable illness.
The thought, when written down, becomes less oppressive, but some thoughts are like a cancerous tumor: you express is, you excise it, and it grows back worse than before.
For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me.
Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.
I knew I had fallen in love with Lolita forever; but I also knew she would not be forever Lolita.
I know more than I can express in words, and the little I can express would not have been expressed, had I not known more.
Only one letter divides the comic from the cosmic.
There is nothing in the world that I loathe more than group activity, that communal bath where the hairy and slippery mix in a multiplication of mediocrity.
The spiral is a spiritualized circle. In the spiral form, the circle, uncoiled, has ceased to be vicious; it has been set free.
I think like a genius, I write like a distinguished author, and I speak like a child.
Some people – and I am one of them – hate happy ends. We feel cheated. Harm is the norm. Doom should not jam. The avalanche stopping in its tracks a few feet above the cowering village behaves not only unnaturally but unethically.
If I correctly understand the sense of this succinct observation, our poet suggests here that human life is but a series of footnotes to a vast obscure unfinished masterpiece.
We think not in words but in shadows of words.