A word, once dissected, no longer signifies anything, is nothing. Like a body that, after an autopsy, is less than a corpse. - Emil Cioran

This is how I recognize an authentic poet: by frequenting him, living a long time in the intimacy of his work, something changes in myself, not so much my inclinations or my tastes as my very blood, as if a subtle disease had been injected to alter its course, its density and nature. To live around a true poet is to feel your blood run thin, to dream a paradise of anemia, and to hear, in your veins, the rustle of tears.

By all evidence we are in the world to do nothing.

There is an innate anxiety which supplants in us both knowledge and intuition.