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.
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...