I believe that you should gravitate to people who are doing productive and positive things with their lives.
You should also appreciate the goodness around you, and surround yourself with positive people.
There is no other world. Nor even this one. What, then, is there? The inner smile provoked in us by the patent nonexistence of both.
I don't run away from a challenge because I am afraid.
Instead, I run toward it because the only way to escape fear is to trample it beneath your feet.
I imagine a future aircraft, which will take off vertically, fly as usual, and land vertically. This flying machine should have no moving parts. This idea came from the huge power of cyclones.
Do I look like someone who has something to do here on earth?' —That's what I'd like to answer the busybodies who inquire into my activities.
When a thing is done, advice comes too late.
I ended up in the US for a month or so, before moving to Montreal with some Romanian friends.
By all evidence we are in the world to do nothing.
You are done for - a living dead man - not when you stop loving but stop hating.
Hatred preserves: in it, in its chemistry, resides the mystery of life.
Only truthful hands write true poems.
I cannot see any basic difference between a handshake and a poem.
My marriage to my husband, Bart Conner in 1996 is my proudest personal moment.
The aphorism is cultivated only by those who have known fear in the midst of words, that fear of collapsing with all the words.
Don't run from a challenge. Instead run toward it, because the only way to escape fear is to trample it beneath your feet.
Of course, I grew up in Communist Romania, but I am happy to say that now our country is democratic, and prospering, since the revolution in 1989.
One of the most difficult times in my life was when I escaped from Romania in November of 1989.
You cannot be anything if you want to be everything.
Paradise was unendurable, otherwise the first man would have adapted to it;
this world is no less so, since here we regret paradise or anticipate another one. What to do? Where to go? Do nothing and go nowhere, easy enough.
Only optimists commit suicide, optimists who no longer succeed at being optimists. The others, having no reason to live, why would they have any to die?
I haven't reported my missing credit card to the police because whoever stole it is spending less than my wife.
The multiplication of our kind borders on the obscene; the duty to love them, on the preposterous.
When you fall, leap to your feet and try again.
Chaos is rejecting all you have learned, chaos is being yourself.
Jump off the beam, flip off the bars follows your dreams, and reach for the stars
Better to be an animal than a man, an insect than an animal, a plant than an insect, and so on. Salvation? Whatever diminishes the kingdom of consciousness and compromises its supremacy.
If you have confidence you have patience. Confidence, that is everything.
Death makes no sense except to people who have passionately loved life.
How can one die without having something to part from? Detachment is a negation of both life and death. Whoever has overcome his fear of death has also triumphed over life. For life is nothing but another word for this fear.
Ideas should be neutral. But man animates them with his passions and folly. Impure and turned into beliefs, they take on the appearance of reality. The passage from logic is consummated. Thus are born ideologies, doctrines, and bloody farce.
Life creates itself in delirium and is undone in ennui.
Reality is not simply there, it does not simply exist: it must be sought out and won.
Hard work has made it easy. That is my secret. That is why I win.
The need for novelty is the characteristic of an alienated gorilla.
Don't sign your name between worlds, surmount the manifold of meanings, trust the tearstain, learn to live.
The poem is lonely. It is lonely and en route. Its author stays with it. Does this very fact not place the poem already here, at its inception, in the encounter, in the mystery of encounter?
Poetry is a sort of homecoming.
Ennui is the echo in us of time tearing itself apart.
I hoped to win a medal and hoped it would be gold.
I knew I was good but didn't know I would be the one to score something that had never been done before.
The sole means of protecting your solitude is to offend everyone, beginning with those you love.
I would like to explode, flow, crumble into dust, and my disintegration would be my masterpiece.
In a republic, that paradise of debility, the politician is a petty tyrant who obeys the laws.
To accomplish nothing and die of the strain
History is nothing but a procession of false Absolutes, a series of temples raised to pretexts, a degradation of the mind before the Improbable.
No one recovers from the disease of being born, a deadly wound if there ever was one.
Democracy: a festival of mediocrity.
To live... in any sense of the word... is to reject others; to accept them, one must renounce, do oneself violence.
German poetry is going in a very different direction from French poetry.
... Its language has become more sober, more factual. It distrusts "beauty." It tries to be truthful.
Not to be born is undoubtedly the best plan of all. Unfortunately, it is within no one's reach.
I never met one interesting mind that was not richly endowed with inadmissible deficiencies.
There is no such thing as several Romanias, but only politicians who divide Romania depending on the interests of their parties and their clout.
With wine and being lost, with less and less of both: I rode through the snow, do you read me I rode God far--I rode God near, he sang, it was our last ride over the hurdled humans. They cowered when they heard us overhead, they wrote, they lied our neighing into one of their image-ridden languages.
It is because we are all impostors that we endure each other.
The man who does not consent to lie will see the earth shrink under his feet: we are biologically obliged to the false
Hungarian Language — savage it may be but of a beauty that has nothing human about it, with sonorities of another universe, powerful and corrosive, appropriate to prayer, to groans and to tears, risen out of hell to perpetuate its accent and its aura…words of nectar and cyanide.