What’s annoying about literary criticism is that it judges something that cannot change.
Nothing is more entertaining than the fate awaiting human beings who are determined to hide, to flee from others. Neither Valéry nor Rimbaud nor Lawrence would have managed to become so universally well-known so quickly had they desired such fame. Imitate them, you young people in quest of great glory. And if no one seeks you out, don’t weep because you’ve succeeded where geniuses have failed. I’ll not say another word.
A writer is always merely the ghostwriter of the child who’s already seen everything.
You always write only an inch away from stopping to speak.
A poet has no memory. But is one.
It’s not in order to be read that you write. It’s in order to be experienced, a little.
We should read a poem only in Braille. With our fingertips.
The poet is the one who accepts to be the attentive slave of what goes on beyond him.
In poetry, the poem is the least thing.
Words that open like oysters.
—Georges Perros, Paper Collage (Seagull Books, 2015), translated from the French by John Taylor.