When it comes, you’ll be dreamingthat you don’t need to breathe;that breathless silence isthe music of the darkand it’s part of the rhythmto vanish like a spark.
The joy of writing.The power of preserving.Revenge of a mortal hand.
I’m old-fashioned and think that reading books is the most glorious pastime that humankind has yet devised.
Loveless work, boring work, work valued only because others haven’t got even that much, however loveless and boring–this is one of the harshest human miseries.
We live longerbut less preciselyand in shorter sentences.
When I pronounce the word Future,the first syllable already belongs to the past.When I pronounce the word Silence,I destroy it.
My choices are rejections, since there is no other way,but what I reject is more numerous,denser, more demanding than before.A little poem, a sigh, at the cost of indescribable loss.
Memories come to mind like excavated statuesthat have misplaced their heads.
a stone / which in its own archaic, simpleminded way / sees life as a chain of failed attempts.
No one feels good at four in the morning.If ants feel good at four in the morning—three cheers for the ants.