“Somewhere out there the world must have an end.”

After every war someone has to tidy up.

I started earning a living as a poet rather early on.

All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.

Poetic talent doesn’t operate in a vacuum. There is a spirit of Polish poetry.

All is mine but nothing owned, nothing owned for memory, and mine only while I look.

Keep up the good work, if only for a while, if only for the twinkling of a tiny galaxy.

This terrifying world is not devoid of charms, of the mornings that make waking up worthwhile.

It’s a well-known fact: in order to follow doctor’s orders, you have to be healthy as a horse.

Every beginning is only a sequel, after all, and the book of events is always open halfway through.

I don’t know the role I’m playing. I only know it’s mine, non-convertible.

No one feels good at four in the morning. If ants feel good at four in the morning —three cheers for the ants.

Out of every hundred people, those who always know better: fifty-two.

Poorly prepared for the dignity of life, I barely keep up with the pace of the action imposed. Reality demands.

When it comes, you’ll be dreaming that you don’t need to breathe; that breathless silence is the music of the dark and it’s part of the rhythm to vanish like a spark.

I cannot speak for more than an hour exclusively about poetry. At that point, life itself takes over again.

Carry on, then, if only for the moment that it takes a tiny galaxy to blink!

For in the end, the irreality function functions as well in the face of man as in the face of the cosmos. What would we know of others if we did not imagine things?

Childhood knows unhappiness through men. In solitude, it can relax its aches. When the human world leaves him in peace, the child feels like the son of the cosmos.

Humanity is a comic role.

You can find the entire cosmos lurking in its least remarkable objects.

A situation is always comic if it participates simultaneously in two series of events which are absolutely independent of each other, and if it can be interpreted in two quite different meanings.

Let me gaze deeper into your eyes and thank the cosmos in disguise.

One may understand the cosmos, but never the ego; the self is more distant than any star.

To the dumb question, ‘Why me?’ the cosmos barely bothers to return the reply, ‘Why not?’