“The eyes of the dead are closed gently; we also have to open gently the eyes of the living.”

Style is a simple way of saying complicated things.

We shelter an angel within us. We must be the guardians of that angel.

A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses.

An artist cannot speak about his art any more than a plant can discuss horticulture.

It is not I who become addicted, it is my body.

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.

Youth can only assert itself through the conviction that its ventures surpass all others and resemble nothing.

I know that poetry is indispensable, but to what I could not say.

It is difficult to live without opium after having known it because it is difficult, after knowing opium, to take earth seriously. And unless one is a saint, it is difficult to live without taking earth seriously.

Poetry is indispensable – if I only knew what for.

I have lost my seven best friends, which is to say God has had mercy on me seven times without realizing it. He lent a friendship, took it from me, sent me another.

The extreme limit of wisdom, that’s what the public calls madness.

You have comfort. You don’t have luxury. And don’t tell me that money plays a part. The luxury I advocate has nothing to do with money. It cannot be bought. It is the reward of those who have NO Fear or Discomfort.

When I write, I disturb. When I show a film, I disturb. When I exhibit my painting, I disturb, and I disturb if I don’t. I have a knack for disturbing.

The artist is a kind of prison from which the works of art escape.

A true photographer is as rare as a true poet or a true painter.

Be glad you’re even alive. Be furious you’re going to die.

It requires more courage to suffer than to die.

Move or die is the language of our Maker in the constitution of our bodies.

A First Sign of the Beginning of Understanding is the Wish to Die.

My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies, Fairy tales of yesterday will grow but never die, I can fly, my friends.

Love, in the sense of spontaneous, unreflective action, spells the death of the old man.

I am not going to be licked by tragedy, as life is a challenge, and we must carry on and work for the living as well as mourn for the dead.

Death to all modifiers, he declared one day, and out of every letter that passed through his hands went every adverb and every adjective.