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.

It is like what we imagine knowledge to be: dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free.

Sometimes it seemsas though only intelligent people are stupid enough to fall in love & only stupid people are intelligent enough to let themselves be loved.

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

Why shouldn't we, so generally addicted to the gigantic, at last have some small works of art, some short poems, short pieces of music [...], some intimate, low-voiced, and delicate things in our mostly huge and roaring, glaring world?

The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat.

The pigs stuck out their little feet and snored.