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.

The soul is a very perfect judge of her own motions, if your mind doesn't dictate to her.

People always make war when they say they love peace.

A museum is not a first-hand contact: it is an illustrated lecture. And what one wants is the actual vital touch.

And every true artist is the salvation of every other. But only artists produce for each other the world that is fit to live in.

I like Australia less and less. The hateful newness, the democratic conceit, every man a little pope of perfection.

A young man is afraid of his demon and puts his hand over the demon's mouth sometimes and speaks for him. And the things the young man says are very rarely poetry.