When A Writer Is Born

A True Opium Of The People Is A Belief In Nothingness After Death - The Huge Solace Of Thinking That For Our Betrayals, Greed, Cowardice, Murders We Are Not Going To Be Judged.

I've Always Regretted That I'm Made Of Contradictions. But, If Contradiction Is Impossible To Overcome, We Have To Accept Both Its Ends.

Every Poet Depends Upon Generations Who Wrote In His Native Tongue; He Inherits Styles And Forms Elaborated By Those Who Lived Before Him. At The Same Time, Though, He Feels That Those Old Means Of Expression Are Not Adequate To His Own Experience.

From Life, From The Apple Cut By The Flaming Knife, What Grain Will Be Saved? My Son, Believe Me, Nothing Remains, Only Adult Toil, The Furrow Of Fate In The Palm. Only Toil, Nothing More.

The Partition Separating Life From Death Is So Tenuous. The Unbelievable Fragility Of Our Organism Suggests A Vision On A Screen: A Kind Of Mist Condenses Itself Into A Human Shape, Lasts A Moment And Scatters.