Psychoanalysis is out, under a therapeutic disguise, to do away entirely with the moral faculty in man.

But then peace, peace! I am so mistrustful of it: so much afraid that it means a sort of weakness and giving in.

It seems to me a purely lyric poet gives himself, right down to his sex, to his mood, utterly and abandonedly, whirls himself roundtill he spontaneously combusts into verse. He has nothing that goes on, no passion, only a few intense moods, separate like odd stars, and when each has burned away, he must die.

For how can a man stand, unless he have something sure under his feet. Can a man tread the unstable water all his life, and call that standing? Better give in and drown at once.

Thought is a man in his wholeness, wholly attending.

For my part, I prefer my heart to be broken. It is so lovely, dawn-kaleidoscopic within the crack.

Do not allow to slip away from you freedoms the people who came before you won with such hard knocks.