Every Soul Is A Melody Which Needs

The Reproach That Superficial People Formulate Against Manet, That Whereas Once He Painted Ugliness, Now He Paints Vulgarity, Falls Harmlessly To The Ground, When We Recognize The Fact That He Paints The Truth.

Everything In The World Exists In Order To End Up As A Book.

You Don't Make A Poem With Ideas, But With Words.

The Poetic Act Consists Of Suddenly Seeing That An Idea Splits Up Into A Number Of Equal Motifs And Of Grouping Them; They Rhyme.

It Is The Job Of Poetry To Clean Up Our Word-clogged Reality By Creating Silences Around Things.