My hands are full when you give me your hand..

God, on the other side of my table, composes His book whose smoke envelops me: for the flame of my candle is His pen..

By the light of our insistent truths we wander into death.

WIDE, the margin between carte blanche and the white page. Nevertheless it is not in the margin that you can find me, but in the yet whiter one that ….

One wound is enough to feed the open wounds of the sky..

We do not truly speak except at a distance. There is no word not severed..

As long as we are not chased from our words we have nothing to fear. As long as our utterances keep their sound we have a voice. As long as our words….

Wound me . . . I can only feed on my humiliated blood..

Through the ear, we shall enter the invisibility of things..

Always in a foreign country, the poet uses poetry as an interpreter..

It is not certainty which is creative, but the uncertainty we are pledged to in our works..

Silence is no weakness of language. It is, on the contrary, its strength. It is the weakness of words not to know this..

The soul has words as petals..

In the morning, you tear up the pages of your fever, but every word naturally leads you back to its color, its night..

How could an argument soothe or settle a controversy when every word is a nest for a bird of doubt? (meaning of words as inferences).

I believe in the writer's mission. He receives it from the word, which carries its suffering and its hope within it. He questions the words, which qu….

THE WRITER can get free of his writing only by using it, that is, by reading oneself. As if the aim of writing were to use what is already written as….

What is not grasped has all the chances to become real..

To whom to speak when the other no longer is? The place is empty when emptiness occupies all of the place..

One rose is enough for the dawn.

It is very hard to live with silence. The real silence is death and this is terrible. To approach this silence, it is necessary to journey to the d….