“It is always difficult to give oneself up; few persons anywhere ever succeed in doing so, and even fewer transcend the possessive stage to know love for what it actually is: a perpetual discovery, and immersion in the waters of reality, an unending re-creation.”

“I sat at the foot of a huge tree, a statue of the night, and tried to make an inventory of all I had seen, heard, smelled, and felt: dizziness, horror, stupor, astonishment, joy, enthusiasm, nausea, inescapable attraction. What had attracted me? It was difficult to say: Human kind cannot bear much reality. Yes, the excess of reality had become an unreality, but that unreality had turned suddenly into a balcony from which I peered into—what? Into that which is beyond and still has no name…”

“This is perhaps the most noble aim of poetry, to attach ourselves to the world around us, to turn desire into love, to embrace, finally what always evades us, what is beyond, but what is always there – the unspoken, the spirit, the soul.”

“Self-discovery is above all the realization that we are alone.”

“When a society decays, it is language that is first to become gangrenous. As a result, social criticism begins with grammar and the re-establishing of meanings”

“persistent, flowing through fallen shadows,excavating tunnels, drilling silences,insisting, running under my pillow,brushing past my temples, covering my eyelidswith another, intangible skin made of air,its wandering nations, its drowsy tribesmigrate through the provinces of my body,it crosses, re-crosses under the bridges of my bones,slips into my left ear, spills out from my right,climbs the nape of my neck,turns and turns in my skull,wanders across the terrace of my forehead,conjures visions, scatters them,erases my thoughts one by onewith hands of unwetting water,it evaporates them,black surge, tide of pulse-beats,murmur of water groping forwardrepeating the same meaningless syllable,I hear its sleepwalking deliriumlosing itself in serpentine galleries of echoes,it comes back, drifts off, comes back,endlessly flings itselfoff the edges of my cliffs,and I don’t stop fallingand I fall”

“...you are you and your body of steam,you and your face of night,you and your hair, unhurried lightning,you cross the street and enter my forehead,footsteps of water across my eyes,listen to me as one listens to the rain”