A Critic Is A Lug-worm In The

Old Age Is An Insult. It's Like Being Smacked.

These Are The Moments Which Are Not Calculable, And Cannot Be Assessed In Words; They Live On In The Solution Of Memory, Like Wonderful Creatures, Unique Of Their Own Kind, Dredged Up From The Floors Of Some Unexplored Ocean.

To Write A Poem Is Like Trying To Catch A Lizard Without Its Tail Falling Off.

Who Invented The Human Heart, I Wonder? Tell Me, And Then Show Me The Place Where He Was Hanged.

No One Can Go On Being A Rebel Too Long Without Turning Into An Autocrat.