What childishness is it that while there's breath of life in our bodies, we are determined to rush to see the sun the other way around?

Open the book. (The gilt rubs off the edges of the pages and pollinates the fingertips.)

If after I read a poem the world looks like that poem for 24 hours or so I'm sure it's a good one—and the same goes for paintings.

What the Man-Moth fears most he must do.

Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Ports are necessities, like postage stamps or soap, but they seldom seem to care what impressions they make.

What one seems to want in art, in experiencing it, is the same thing that is necessary for its creation, a self-forgetful, perfectly useless concentration.