The word and the shadow of the word / makes a thing both itself and something else / till we are metaphors and not ourselves . . .
Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor.
She's a rare vase, out of a cat's reach, on its shelf.
The thing that is believed is a reality.
The truest writers are those who see language not as a linguistic process but as a living element.
The classics can console. But not enough.