Our imagination flies -- we are its shadow on the earth.

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Play! Invent the world! Invent reality!

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Let all of life be an unfettered howl.

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For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me. With every acquaintance I make, the population of phantoms resembling me increases. Somewhere they live, somewhere they multiply. I alone do not exist.

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The future is but the obsolete in reverse.

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Nostalgia in reverse, the longing for yet another strange land, grew especially strong in spring.

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I am sufficiently proud of my knowing something to be modest about my not knowing all.

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Words without experience are meaningless.

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There is nothing dictators hate so much as that unassailable, eternally elusive, eternally provoking gleam. One of the main reasons why the very gallant Russian poet Gumilev was put to death by Lenin's ruffians thirty odd years ago was that during the whole ordeal, in the prosecutor's dim office, in the torture house, in the winding corridors that led to the truck, in the truck that took him to the place of execution, and at that place itself, full of the shuffling feet of the clumsy and gloomy shooting squad, the poet kept smiling.

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Resemblances are the shadows of differences. Different people see different similarities and similar differences.

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