Retold, my dream is nothing; dreamt, it was terrible.

Which one of us has never felt, walking through the twilight or writing down a date from his past, that he has lost something infinite?

I thought of a labyrinth of labyrinths, of one sinuous spreading labyrinth that would encompass the past and the future and in some way involve the stars.

All our lives we postpone everything that can be postponed; perhaps we all have the certainty, deep inside, that we are immortal and sooner or later every man will do everything, know all there is to know.

Poetry is not the books in the library. Poetry is the encounter of the reader with the book, the discovery of the book.

The art of writing is mysterious, the opinions we hold are ephemeral....

It seemed incredible that this day, a day without warnings or omens, might be that of my implacable death.