Only write to me, write to me, I love to see the hop and skip and sudden starts of your ink.
Literary critics make natural detectives.
Things are not what they seem.
A beautiful woman, Simone Weil said, seeing herself in the mirror, knows "This is I." An ugly woman knows with equal certainty, "This is not I." Maud knew this neat division represented an over-simplification. The doll-mask she saw had nothing to do with her, nothing.
Young girls are sad. They like to be; it makes them feel strong.
An odd phrase, "by heart," he would add, as though poems were stored in the bloodstream.