In our plain defects we already know the brotherhood of man.

How nature loves the incomplete. She knows If she drew a conclusion it would finish her.

Who apart from ourselves, can see any difference between our victories and our defeats?

An artist's sensitivity to criticism is, at least in part, an effort to keep unimpaired the zest, or confidence, or arrogance, which he needs to make creation possible; or an instinct to climb through his problems in his own way as he should, and must.

It is the individual man in his individual freedom who can mature with his warm spirit the unripe world.

Poetry is the language in which man explores his own amazement... says heaven and earth in one word... speaks of himself and his predicament as though for the first time.

Indulgences, not fulfillment, is what the world Permits us.