for a poem to be a poem it must be read by someone other than the author; only then can it be proved that the poem is something more than simply a private diary in code and that it is capable of living its own life, independent of whoever has written it.

even during periods when History impetuously rages, everyday life sooner or later emerges from its shadow and the conjugal bed shows all its monumental triviality and astounding permanence.

it was not only a feeling of guilt which drove him into danger. He detested the pettiness that made life semilife and men semimen. He wished to put his life on one of a pair of scales and death on the other. He wished each of his acts, indeed each day, each hour, each second of his life to be measured against the supreme criterion, which is death.

She felt like a tourist who has before her the most beautiful landscapes but is too worn out to perceive their beauty; she gained no joy from her love, but she knew that it was grand and beautiful and that she must not lose it.

when it comes to love there’s no such thing as compromise. When you’re in love you must give everything.”

when he is old a man is no longer obliged to care about his group’s opinions, about the public, and about the future. He is alone with approaching death, and death has neither eyes nor ears, he has no need to please death; he can do and say what he pleases.

when he saw out of the corner of his eye his own words on the walls, set, fixed, more durable and bigger than himself, he was carried away; he had the impression of being surrounded by his own self, of being vast, of filling the entire room, of filling the entire house.

according to the poet in his sixties, the word “youth” does not designate a specific period of life but a value above age and unconnected with it.

Isn’t a realistic vision of the world the emptiest of illusions?