Build then the ship of death, for you must take the longest journey, to oblivion.

It is a curious thing how poets tend to become ascetics.... Even a debauch for them is a self-flagellation. They go on the loose in cruelty against themselves, admitting that they are pandering to, and despising, the lower self.

I'd wipe the machines off the face of the earth again, and end the industrial epoch absolutely, like a black mistake.

One could laugh at the world better if it didn't mix tender kindliness with its brutality.

It grew late. Through the open door, stealthily, came the scent of madonna lilies, almost as if it were prowling abroad.

The war is dreadful. It is the business of the artist to follow it home to the heart of the individual fighters - not to talk in armies and nations and numbers - but to track it home.

Comes over one an absolute necessity to move. And what is more, to move in some particular direction. A double necessity then: to get on the move, and to know whither.