“And let me ask you this: the dead, where aren't they?”

“I basked in you;I loved you, helplessly, with a boundless tongue-tied love.And death doesn't prevent me from loving you.Besides, in my opinion you aren't dead.(I know dead people, and you are not dead.)”

“EPITAPHNow I'm not the brightestknife in the drawer, butI know a couple thingsabout this life: povertysilence, impermanencediscipline and mysteryThe world is not illusory, we areFrom crimson thread to toe tagIf you are not disturbedthere is something seriously wrong with you, I'm sorryAnd I know who I amI'll be a voicecoming from nowhere,inside--be glad for me.”

“So we sit there together the mountain and me, Li Po said, until only the mountain remains.”

“What I would say is this: writing poems doesn't make you a poet. … It is only with poetry, for some reason, that everyone wants to believe they can try their hand at it once in a while and be considered, can call themselves a poet. … . It's a craft. It's an art. It's a skill. It is not therapy, and it is not compensation for terrible things in one's life. It is a thing in itself. You devote yourself to being an instrument of it, or you wander forever in the belief that it is a form of "self-expression." … And I explained very clearly my opinion of what I think a poet, an artist is. Someone who puts this thing first. ”

“literature will lose, sunlight will win, don't worry.”

“But if they were condmened to suffer this unending torment, sooner or later wouldn't they become the holy?”