We have no choice but to be guilty. God is unthinkable if we are innocent.

That peculiar disease of intellectuals, that infatuation with ideas at the expense of experience, that compels experience to conform to bookish expectations.

A man who lives, not by what he loves but what he hates, is a sick man.

Young poets are advised by their elders to avoid the practice of journalism as they would wet socks and gin before breakfast.

The infantile cowardice of our time which demands an external pattern, a nonhuman authority.

There is no dusk to be, There is no dawn that was, Only there's now, and now, And the wind in the grass.

Conventional wisdom notwithstanding, there is no reason either in football or in poetry why the two should not meet in a man's life if he has the weight and cares about the words.