An ancient metaphor: thought is a thread, and the raconteur is a spinner of yarns – but the true storyteller, the poet, is a weaver.

A myth is a hypothesis about the personality of reality itself and not the personalities of individual persons, character types, or nations.

When you die, your culture takes you in, and then, if you’ve given enough, your place is near the centre.

The designer always has to leave room for the gods.

What shall I do with the night and the day, with this life and this death?

Poetry, I’m often told, is something made of words. I think it really goes the other way around: words are made of poetry.

Popularity isn’t just something that happens. You have to give something in exchange for it, and that’s the dangerous part of the process.

If language is lost, humanity is lost. If writing is lost, certain kinds of civilization and society are lost, but many other kinds remain – and there is no reason to think that those alternatives are inferior.

By all means break the rules, and break them beautifully, deliberately and well.

When you think intensely and beautifully, something happens. That something is called poetry. If you think that way and speak at the same time, poetry gets in your mouth. If people hear you, it gets in their ears. If you think that way and write at the same time, then poetry gets written. But poetry exists in any case. The question is only: are you going to take part, and if so, how?