For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough)-they are experiences..

A person isn't who they are during the last conversation you had with them - they're who they've been throughout your whole relationship..

Life - a sexually transmitted terminal condition..

The only sadnesses that are dangerous and unhealthy are the ones that we carry around in public in order to drown them out with the noise; like disea….

Speaking of August Rodin: He raised his world above us in an immense arc, and made it a part of nature..

God speaks to each of us as he makes us, then walks with us silently out of the night..

If your everyday life appears to be unworthy subject matter, do not complain to life. Complain to yourself, Lament that you are not poet enough to ca….

I am like a child who awakes At the light, so safe and secureFree from night's fears when dawn breaks, In Thee I am ever secure..

That is at bottom the only courage that is demanded of us: to have courage for the most strange, the most singular, and the most inexplicable that we….

In this there is no measuring with time, a year doesn’t matter, and ten years are nothing. Being an artist means: not numbering and counting, but rip….

Nothing touches a work of art so little as words of criticism: they always result in more or less fortunate misunderstandings..

I don’t want to stand before you like a thing, shrewd, secretive. I want my own will, and I want simply to be with my will, as it goes toward action.….

That’s love: Two lonely persons keep each other safe and touch each other and talk to each other..

Works of art are of an infinite loneliness and with nothing so little to be reached as with criticism..

Being an artist means, not reckoning and counting, but ripening like the tree which does not force its sap and stands confidence in the storms of spr….

It almost seems as if autumn were the true creator, more creative than the spring, which is too even-toned, more creative when it comes with its will….

I live not in dreams but in contemplation of a reality that is perhaps the future..

I am touched by your beautiful anxiety about life..

Huge lemons, cut in slices, would sink like setting suns into the dusky sea, softly illuminating it with their radiating membranes, and its clear, sm….

Painting is something that takes place among the colors..

Now I come to you full of future. And from habit we begin to live our past..