It Is The Job Of Poetry To

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

The Poetic Act Consists Of Suddenly Seeing That An Idea Splits Up Into A Number Of Equal Motifs And Of Grouping Them; They Rhyme.

A Soul Trembling To Sit By A Hearth So Bright, To Exist Again, It’s Enough If I Borrow From Your Lips The Breath Of My Name You Murmur All Night.

Paint, Not The Thing But The Effect Which It Produces.

A Throw Of The Dice Will Never Abolish Chance.