“How quiet the writing, how noisy the printing.”

“Your name is a -- bird in my handa piece of -- ice on the tongueone single movement of the lips.Your name is: five signs,a ball caught in flight, asilver bell in the moutha stone, cast in a quiet poolmakes the splash of your name, andthe sound is in the clatter ofnight hooves, loud as a thunderclapor it speaks straight into my forehead,shrill as the click of a cocked gun.Your name -- how impossible, itis a kiss in the eyes onmotionless eyelashes, chill and sweet.Your name is a kiss of snowa gulp of icy spring water, blueas a dove. About your name is: sleep.”

“What is this gypsy passion for separation, thisreadiness to rush off when we've just met?My head rests in my hands as Irealize, looking into the nightthat no one turning over our letters hasyet understood how completely andhow deeply faithless we are, which isto say: how true we are to ourselves.”

“One should write only those books from whose absence one suffers. In short: the ones you want on your own desk.”

“I opened my veins. Unstoppablylife spurts out with no remedy.Now I set out bowls and plates.Every bowl will be shallow.Every plate will be small.And overflowing their rims,into the black earth, to nourishthe rushes unstoppablywithout cure, gushespoetry ...”

“There are books so alive that you're always afraid that while you weren't reading, the book has gone and changed, has shifted like a river; while you went on living, it went on living too, and like a river moved on and moved away. No one has stepped twice into the same river. But did anyone ever step twice into the same book?”

“Don't you know no one can escapethe power of creatures reaching outwith breath alone?”