In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:
a thing is brought forth which we didn't know we had in us,
so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out
and stood in the light, lashing his tail. - Czesław Miłosz
". . . as I have said often enough, I write for myself in multiplicate, a not unfamiliar phenomenon on the
horizon of shimmering deserts."
- Vladimir Nabokov