Poetry Is A Subject As Precise As

Reveal Art; Conceal The Artist.

It Is Always Sad To Leave A Place To Which One Knows One Will Never Return.

… Her Heart Remained Empty Once More, And The Procession Of Days All Alike Began Again. So They Were Going To Follow One Another, Like This, In Line, Always Identical, Innumerable, Bringing Nothing!

Me And My Books In The Same Apartment, Like A Gherkin In Its Vinegar.

Emma Was No Asleep, She Was Pretending To Be Asleep; And, While He Was Dozing Off At Her Side, She Lay Awake, Dreaming Other Dreams.