Fate would never permit happiness to a man of such talent-a content poet is a mediocre one, a happy poet is insufferable.
Passion was the antithesis of morality.
How can I expect readers to know who I am if I do not tell them about my family, my friends, the relationships in my life? Who am I if not where I fit in the world, where I fit in the lives of the people dear to me?
By remaining constrained in one's environment or country or family, one has little chance of being other than the original prescription. By leaving, one gains a perspective, a distance of both space and time, which is essential for writing about family or home, in any case.
You can say that Lebanese has hundreds of lexemes for family relations. Family to the Lebanese is as snow to the Inuit.
I wonder whether there is such a thing as a sense of individuality. Is it all a facade, covering a deep need to belong? Are we simply pack animals desperately trying to pretend we are not?
I was a lonely boy. I spent all my time reading books and watching the world. [some] tried to draw me out at first, but their hearts weren't in it. And after all, they had enough troubles of their own.
...What happens is of little significance compared with the stories we tell ourselves about what happens. Events matter little, only stories of events affect us.
I believe one has to escape oneself to discover oneself.
I wonder if being sane means disregarding the chaos that is life, pretending only an infinitesimal segment of it is reality.
The eye always fills in the imperfections.