The worst fate of a poet is to be admired without being understood.
There are truths which one can only say after having won the right to say them.
Poets don't draw. They unravel their handwriting and then tie it up again, but differently.
After the writer's death, reading his journal is like receiving a long letter.
Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying.
The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth.
When a work appears to be ahead of its time, it is only the time that is behind the work.
Silence moves faster when it's going backward.
The poet never asks for admiration; he wants to be believed.
Here I am trying to live, or rather, I am trying to teach the death within me how to live.
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