The terrifying experience and obsession of death, when preserved in consciousness, becomes ruinous. If you talk about death, you save part of yourself. But at the same time, something of your real self dies, because objectified meanings lose the actuality they have in consciousness.

How good would it be if one could die by throwing oneself into an infinite void.

Animal banished from life, man's condition is tragic, for he no longer finds fulfillment in life's simple values. For animals, life is all there is; for man, life is a question mark. An irreversible question mark, for man has never found, nor will ever find, any answers. Life not only has no meaning; it can never have one.

True confessions are written with tears only. But my tears would drown the world, as my inner fire would reduce it to ashes.

It is no nation that we inhabit, but a language. Make no mistake; our native toungue is our true fatherland.

That there should be a reality hidden behind appearances is, after all, quite possible; that language might render such a thing would be an absurd hope.

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.

I have no ideas, only obsessions. Anybody can have ideas. Ideas have never caused anybody's downfall.

Viaţa în comun devine intolerabilă, iar viaţa de unul singur, şi mai de nesu portat.