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

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

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

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

My poverty is not complete: it lacks me.

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

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

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

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

A hundred men together are the hundredth part of man.

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

Only the wound speaks its own word.