He who has seem everything empty itself is close
to knowing what everything is filled with.

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I found the whole of my first world in my meager bread.

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My father, when he went,
made my childhood a gift of half century.

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A door opens to me. I go in and am faced
with a hundred closed doors.

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My poverty is not complete: it lacks me.

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It is when I assent to nothing that I assent to all.

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Man, when he is merely what seems to be,
is almost nothing.

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He who does not fill his world
with phantoms remains alone.

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When the superficial wearies me, it wearies me
so much that I need an abyss in order to rest.

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A hundred men together are the hundredth part of man.

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The far away, the very far, the farthest,
I have found only in my own blood.

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Only the wound speaks its own word.

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