The terrible, cold, cruel part is Wall Street. Rivers of gold flow there from all over the earth, and death comes with it. There, as nowhere else, you feel a total absence of the spirit: herds of men who cannot count past three, herds more who cannot get past six, scorn for pure science and demoniacal respect for the present. And the terrible thing is that the crowd that fills the street believes that the world will always be the same and that it is their duty to keep that huge machine running, day and night, forever.

Those who are afraid of death will carry it on their shoulders.

What shall I say about poetry? What shall I say about those clouds, or about the sky? Look; look at them; look at it! And nothing more. Don't you understand anything about poetry? Leave that to the critics and the professors. For neither you, nor I, nor any poet knows what poetry is.

The two elements the traveler first captures in the big city are extra human architecture and furious rhythm. Geometry and anguish.

We're all curious about what might hurt us.

My head is full of fire and grief and my tongue runs wild, pierced with shards of glass.

The day we stop resisting our instincts, we'll have learned how to live.