
How quiet the writing, how noisy the printing.

For the way of the comets is the poet's way.

My favorite mode of communication is in the world beyond: a dream, to see in a dream. My second favorite is correspondence.

I do not speak. I smoke. Throat tight, as if fingers are squeezing it.

The eclipses of
poets are not foretold in the calender.

Somewhere in the night a
human being is drowning.

(Everyday life is like a sack: with holes. And you carry it anyway.)

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

I refuse to be. In
the madhouse of the inhuman
I refuse to live.
With the wolves of the market place
I refuse to howl ...

In this most Christian of worlds all poets are Jews.

I have two enemies in all the world,
Two twins, inseparably fused:
The hunger of the hungry and the fullness of the full.

Fall asleep then. Sleep. And vanish.

Women talk about love and silent about lovers, men - on the contrary: Speaking of mistresses, but are silent about love.

My desk, most loyal friend thank you. You've been with me on every road I've taken. My scar and my protection.

I kissed you! I witched you!
I laugh at the afterlife's dark.

And soon all of us will sleep under the earth, we who never let each other sleep above it.

An amazing observation: it is precisely for feelings that one needs time, not for thought ... Feelings, obviously, are more demanding than thought.

In you, I see the heroines of Shakespeare's tragedies.
You, unhappy lady, were
never saved by anybody.

For the path of comets/ is the path of poets: they burn without warming,/ pick without cultivating. They are: an explosion, a breaking in

I have two foes in the world, twins inextricably interrelated -- the hunger of the hungry and the glut of the glutted!

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

The one that burned the hottest is the first to die.

I'm kissing you now - across
The gap of a thousand years.