A man who can be entertaining for a full day will be in his grave by night-fall.

Look at this poet William Carlos Williams: he is primitive and native, and his roots are in raw forest and violent places; he is word-sick and place-crazy. He admires strength, but for what? Violence! This is the cult of the frontier mind.

Man pines to live but cannot endure the days of his life.

The earnings of a poet could be reckoned by a metaphysician rather than a bookkeeper.

Every decision you make is a mistake.

We are always talking about being together, and yet whatever we invent destroys the family, and makes us wild, touchless beasts feeding on technicolor prairies and rivers.

We are uneasy with an affectionate man, for we are positive he wants something of us, particularly our love.