Poetry Is Not Truth, It Is The

To Love Is To Undress Our Names.

I Sat At The Foot Of A Huge Tree, A Statue Of The Night, And Tried To Make An Inventory Of All I Had Seen, Heard, Smelled, And Felt: Dizziness, Horror, Stupor, Astonishment, Joy, Enthusiasm, Nausea, Inescapable Attraction. What Had Attracted Me? It Was Difficult To Say: Human Kind Cannot Bear Much Reality.

Literature Is The Expression Of A Feeling Of Deprivation, A Recourse Against A Sense Of Something Missing. But The Contrary Is Also True: Language Is What Makes Us Human. It Is A Recourse Against The Meaningless Noise And Silence Of Nature And History.

Love Is An Attempt At Penetrating Another Being, But It Can Only Succeed If The Surrender Is Mutual.

What Sets Worlds In Motion Is The Interplay Of Differences, Their Attractions And Repulsions; Life Is Plurality, Death Is Uniformity.