Art is History's nostalgia, it prefers a thatched roof to a concrete factory, and the huge church above a bleached village.

I too saw the wooden horse blocking the stars.

What are men? Children who doubt.

For every poet it is always morning in the world; history a forgotten, insomniac night. The fate of poetry is to fall in love with the world in spite of history.

Who cares about a kid from the Midwest writing pentameter? It's stupid.

Any serious attempt to try to do something worthwhile is ritualistic.

I look in the mirror. There's me. What's in the mirror is not real. So am I unreal?