For Every Language That Becomes Extinct, An

Love Is Not A Desire For Beauty; It Is A Yearning For Completion.

Poetry Is Not Truth, It Is The Resurrection Of Presences.

Reality Is A Staircase Going Neither Up Nor Down, We Don't Move; Today Is Today, Always Is Today.

Every View Of The World That Becomes Extinct, Every Culture That Disappears, Diminishes A Possibility Of Life

It Is Always Difficult To Give Oneself Up; Few Persons Anywhere Ever Succeed In Doing So, And Even Fewer Transcend The Possessive Stage To Know Love For What It Actually Is: A Perpetual Discovery, And Immersion In The Waters Of Reality, An Unending Re-creation.