But the body is deeper than the soul and its secrets inscrutable.

A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself.

I only wish the poets would say this too: love is of the body; not the body, but of the the body. Ah! the misery that would be saved if we confessed that! Ah! for a little directness to liberate the soul!

He doesn't want you to be real, and to think and to live. He doesn't love you. But I love you. I want you to have your own thoughts and ideas and feelings, even when I hold you in my arms.

Those who prepared for all the emergencies of life beforehand may equip themselves at the expense of joy.

...the true spirit of gastronomic joylessness. Porridge fills the Englishman up, and prunes clear him out.

All that is observable in a man-that is to say his actions and such of his spiritual existence as can be deduced from his actions-falls into the domain of history.