The joy of writing.The power of preserving.Revenge of a mortal hand.
Existentialists are monumentally and monotonously serious; they don’t like to joke.
All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.
I like being near the top of a mountain. One can’t get lost here.
We live longerbut less preciselyand in shorter sentences.
You can find the entire cosmos lurking in its least remarkable objects.
Four billion people on this earthbut my imagination is still the same.It’s bad with large numbers.It’s still taken by particularity.It flits in the dark like a flashlight,illuminating only random faceswhile all the rest go by,never...
I started earning a living as a poet rather early on.
Carry on, then, if only for the moment that it takes a tiny galaxy to blink!
It’s just not easy to explain to someone else what you don’t understand yourself.
They’re both convincedthat a sudden passion joined them.Such certainty is beautiful,but uncertainty is more beautiful still.Since they’d never met before, they’re surethat there’d been nothing between them.But what’s the word from the streets, staircases, hallways–perhaps...
A Word On Statistics-Out of every hundred people, those who always know better:fifty-two.Unsure of every step:almost all the rest. Ready to help,if it doesn’t take long:forty-nine. Always good,because they cannot be otherwise:fourwell, maybe five. Able...
Even the worst book can give us something to think about.
The buzzard has nothing to fault himself with.Scruples are alien to the black panther.Piranhas do not doubt the rightness of their actions.The rattlesnake approves of himself without reservations.The self-critical jackal does not exist.The locust, alligator,...
Poetic talent doesn’t operate in a vacuum. There is a spirit of Polish poetry.
Life lasts but a few scratches of the claw in the sand.
Is a decision made in advance really any kind of choice.
We have a soul at times.No one’s got it non-stop,for keeps.Day after day,year after yearmay pass without it.Sometimesit will settle for awhileonly in childhood’s fears and raptures.Sometimes only in astonishmentthat we are old.It rarely lends...
I don’t know the role I’m playing. I only know it’s mine, non-convertible.