I Believe That Only Poetry Counts ...

No Love, No Friendship, Can Cross The Path Of Our Destiny Without Leaving Some Mark On It Forever.

What I Fear Is Not Being Forgotten After My Death, But, Rather, Not Being Enough Forgotten. As We Were Saying, It Is Not Our Books That Survive, But Our Poor Lives That Linger In The Histories.

The Scapegoat Has Always Had The Mysterious Power Of Unleashing Man's Ferocious Pleasure In Torturing, Corrupting, And Befouling.

Men Resemble Great Deserted Palaces: The Owner Occupies Only A Few Rooms And Has Closed-off Wings Where He Never Ventures.

The Eucharist Engages Us Unreservedly; It Is A Pact Of Love, An Alliance Signed In The Deeper Recesses Of Our Being. All Our Potentialities Are Called Upon To Warrant The Protection And Fulfillment Of This Pact.