My theology, briefly, is that the universe was dictated but not signed.

The enemies of the future are always the very nicest people.

Words are a commodity in which there is never any slump.

The world, in its sheer exuberance of kindness, will try to bury the poet with warm and lovely human trivialities. It will even ask him to autograph books.

The evening papers print what they do and get away with it because by afternoon the human mind is ruined anyhow.

Printer's ink has been running a race against gunpowder these many, many years. Ink is handicapped, in a way, because you can blow up a man with gunpowder in half a second, while it may take twenty years to blow him up with a book. But the gunpowder destroys itself along with its victim, while a book can keep on exploding for centuries.

A human being: an ingenious assembly of portable plumbing.