Man's Passion For Truth Is Such That

The Only Living Language Is The Language In Which We Think And Have Our Being.

In Order To Write Poetry, You Must First Invent A Poet Who Will Write It.

Has My Heart Gone To Sleep? Have The Beehives Of My Dreams Stopped Working, The Waterwheel Of The Mind Run Dry, Scoops Turning Empty, Only Shadow Inside? No, My Heart Is Not Asleep. It Is Awake, Wide Awake. Not Asleep, Not Dreaming— Its Eyes Are Opened Wide Watching Distant Signals, Listening On The Rim Of Vast Silence

Wanderer, Your Footsteps Are The Road, And Nothing More; Wanderer, There Is No Road, The Road Is Made By Walking. By Walking One Makes The Road, And Upon Glancing Behind One Sees The Path. . .

Don't Try To Rush Things: For The Cup To Run Over, It Must First Be Filled.