Poetry is a theorem of a yellow-silk handkerchief knotted with riddles, sealed in a balloon tied to the tail of a kite flying in a white wind against a blue sky in spring.

What is there more of in the world than anything else? Ends.

Poetry is a fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing, with an illegible oath between.

A liar goes in fine clothes, a liar goes in rags, a liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes.

When one has the right swing and enthusiasm, selling is not unlike hunting, a veritable sport. To scare up the game by preliminary talk and to know how long to follow it, to lose your gain through poorly directed argument, to hang on to game that finally eludes, to boldly confront, to quickly circle around, to keep on the trail, tireless and keen, till you have bagged some orders, there is some satisfaction in returning at night, tired of the trail, but proud of the days work done.

There are men and women so lonely they believe God, too, is lonely.

I'm an idealist. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way.