Casting Aspersions On Those We Love Always

Sick, Irritated, And The Prey To A Thousand Discomforts, I Go On With My Labor Like A True Workingman, Who, With Sleeves Rolled Up, In The Sweat Of His Brow, Beats Away At His Anvil, Not Caring Whether It Rains Or Blows, Hails Or Thunders.

Poetry Is As Precise A Thing As Geometry.

The True Poet For Me Is A Priest. As Soon As He Dons The Cassock, He Must Leave His Family.

After A Person Dies, There Is Always Something Like A Feeling Of Stupefaction, So Difficult Is It To Comprehend This Unexpected Advent Of Nothingness And To Resign Oneself To Believing It.

What Baffled Him Was That There Should Be All This Fuss About Something So Simple As Love.