A Throw Of The Dice Will Never

The Flesh Is Sad, Alas, And I Have Read All The Books.

It Is The Job Of Poetry To Clean Up Our Word-clogged Reality By Creating Silences Around Things.

The Reproach That Superficial People Formulate Against Manet, That Whereas Once He Painted Ugliness, Now He Paints Vulgarity, Falls Harmlessly To The Ground, When We Recognize The Fact That He Paints The Truth.

Everything That Is Sacred And That Wishes To Remain So Must Envelop Itself In Mystery.

Everything In The World Exists In Order To End Up As A Book.