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Though I may deny poets their monopoly on inspiration, I still place them in a select group of Fortune's darlings.
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All the best have something in common, a regard for reality, an agreement to its primacy over the imagination.
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Sometimes I write quickly, sometimes I spend several weeks on a single poem. I would really love for readers not to be able to guess which of the poems took so much work!
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Existentialists are monumentally and monotonously serious; they don't like to joke.
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Life lasts but a few scratches of the claw in the sand.
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In every tragedy, an element of comedy is preserved. Comedy is just tragedy reversed.
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Nothing can ever happen twice. In consequence, the sorry fact is that we arrive here improvised and leave without the chance to practice.
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I'm one-time-only to the marrow of my bones.
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I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
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I have sympathy for young people, for their growing pains, but I balk when these growing pains are pushed into the foreground, when you make these young people the only vehicles of lifes wisdom.
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Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.
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It's a well-known fact: in order to follow doctor's orders, you have to be healthy as a horse.
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When I mention somebody, that doesn't necessarily mean that I identify with him, personally or poetically. I'm extremely happy when I encounter poets who are different than I am. The ones who have their own distinct poetics provide me with the greatest experiences.
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Loveless work, boring work, work valued only because others haven't got even that much, however loveless and boring - this is one of the harshest human miseries.
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All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.
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Get to know other worlds, if only for comparison.
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They say the first love's most important. That's very romantic, but not my experience.
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No day copies yesterday, no two nights will teach what bliss is in precisely the same way, with precisely the same kisses.
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Poorly prepared for the dignity of life, I barely keep up with the pace of the action imposed. Reality demands.
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Even boredom should be described with gusto. How many things are happening on a day when nothing happens?
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No one in my family has ever died of love. What happened, happened, but nothing myth-inspiring.
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Let the people who never find true love keep saying that there's no such thing. Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.
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Even a graphomaniac is an extremely complicated person.
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Animals don't even try to look any different from what nature intended. They humbly wear their shells, scales, spines, plumes, pelts, and down. ... The conscious impulse to change one's appearance is found only among humans.