Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.

The squeaky wheel gets the grease but the quacking duck gets shot.

We had two grand antique professors who had been teaching at Lombard since before I was born.

Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.

Nearly all the best things that came to me in life have been unexpected, unplanned by me.

I stayed away from mathematics not so much because I knew it would be hard work as because of the amount of time I knew it would take, hours spent in a field where I was not a natural.

I have in later years taken to Euclid, Whitehead, Bertrand Russell, in an elemental way.