“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.”

“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 ...”

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

“However much you feed a wolf, it always looks to the forest. We are all wolves of the dense forest of Eternity.”

“Who sleeps at night? No one is sleeping.
In the cradle a child is screaming.
An old man sits over his death, and anyone
young enough talks to his love, breathes
into her lips, looks into her eyes.”

“Old men, old men, old men. Medals, medals, medals. Not a brow without a furrow, not a breast without a star. My brother and husband are uniquely-young here. The grouping of young Grand Dukes doesn't count because a grouping is just what they are: a marble bas-relief. Today the whole old-age of Russia seems to have flowed into this place in homage to the eternal youth of Greece. A living lesson of history and philosophy: this is what time does with people, this is what it does--with gods. This is what time does with a man, this is what (a glance at the statues) art does. And, the last lesson: this is what time does with a man; this is what a man does with time. But because of my youth I don't think about that, I feel only a cold shudder. ("The Opening of the Museum")”

“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.”