In our corruption we perceive beauties unrevealed to ancient times.

The Poet is like the prince of the clouds, who haunts the tempest and laughs at the archer. Exiled on the ground in the midst of the jeering crowd, his giant's wings keep him from walking.

There is a word, in a verb, something sacred which forbids us from using it recklessly. To handle a language cunningly is to practice a kind of evocative sorcery.

Where are the dogs going? you people who pay so little attention ask. They are going about their business. And they are very punctilious, without wallets, notes, and without briefcases.

There are moments of existence when time and space are more profound, and the awareness of existence is immensely heightened.

A study of the Great Malady; horror of home.

Strangeness is a necessary ingredient in beauty.