The beloved is already in our being, as thirst and "otherness." Being is eroticism. Inspiration is that strange voice that takes man out of himself to be every thing that he is, everything that he desires; another body, another being. Beyond, outside of me, in the green and gold thicket, among the tremulous branches, sings the unknown. It calls to me.

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Poetry is not truth, it is the resurrection of presences.

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The universe unfolds in the body, which is its mirror and its creature.

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The world is born when two people kiss

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Reality is a staircase going neither up nor down, we don't move; today is today, always is today.

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Eroticism is first and foremost a thirst for otherness. And the supernatural is the supreme otherness. This is perhaps the most noble aim of poetry, to attach ourselves to the world around us, to turn desire into love, to embrace, finally what always evades us, what is beyond, but what is always there – the unspoken, the spirit, the soul.

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Love is an attempt at penetrating another being, but it can only succeed if the surrender is mutual.

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The supreme value is not the future but the present. The future is a deceitful time that always says to us, 'Not Yet,' and thus denies us... Whoever builds a house for future happiness builds a prison for the present.

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Modern man likes to pretend that his thinking is wide-awake. But this wide-awake thinking has led us into the mazes of a nightmare in which the torture chambers are endlessly repeated in the mirrors of reason.

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Every view of the world that becomes extinct, every culture that disappears, diminishes a possibility of life

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