You Are The Poet, You Walk Inside

Reality Doesn’t Impress Me. I Only Believe In Intoxication, In Ecstasy, And When Ordinary Life Shackles Me. I Escape, One Way Or Another. No More Walls.

The Personal, If It Is Deep Enough, Becomes Universal, Mythical, Symbolic.

I See Enormous Loves Growing Immense And Finally Crushing Me.

The Period Without The Diary Remains An Ordeal. Every Evening I Want My Diary As One Wants Opium.

Why One Writes Is A Question I Can Answer Easily, Having So Often Asked It Of Myself. I Believe One Writes Because One Has To Create A World In Which One Can Live. I Could Not Live In Any Of The Worlds Offered To Me - The World Of My Parents, The World Of War, The World Of Politics. I Had To Create A World Of My Own, Like A Climate, A Country, An Atmosphere In Which I Could Breathe, Reign, And Recreate Myself When Destroyed By Living. That, I Believe, Is The Reason For Every Work Of Art.