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The dead drug leaves a ghost behind. At certain hours it haunts the house.

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I know that poetry is indispensable, but to what I could not say.
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The job of the poet (a job which can’t be learned) consists of placing those objects of the visible world which have become invisible due to the glue of habit, in an unusual position which strikes the soul and gives them a tragic force.
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Every day in the mirror I watch death at work.
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Picasso said that everything is a miracle, that it’s a miracle that we don’t dissolve in our baths.
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Appreciation of art is a moral erection, otherwise mere dilettantism.
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I have a piece of great and sad news to tell you: I am dead.
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Poetry is a religion without hope. The poet exhausts himself in its service, knowing that, in the long run, a masterpiece is nothing but the performance of a trained dog on very shaky ground.
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Anything of any importance cannot help but be unrecognizable, since it bears no resemblance to anything already known.
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Not only should you not accept a prize. You should not try to deserve one either.
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Mirrors should think longer before they reflect.
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And now I have to confess the unpardonable and the scandalous. I am a happy man. And I am going to tell you the secret of my happiness. It is quite simple. I love mankind. I love love. I hate hate. I try to understand and accept.
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The public is never pleased with what we do, wanting always a copy of what we have done.
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I’ve always preferred mythology to history. History is truth that becomes an illusion. Mythology is an illusion that becomes reality.
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Mystery has its own mysteries, and there are gods above gods. We have ours, they have theirs. That is what’s known as infinity.
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If a poet has a dream, it is not of becoming famous, but of being believed.
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What the public criticizes in you, cultivate. It is you.
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