Not for a moment, beautiful aged Walt Whitman, have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies.

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

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

With their souls of patent leather, they come down the road. Hunched and nocturnal, where they breathe they impose, silence of dark rubber, and fear of fine sand.

New York is a meeting place for every race in the world, but the Chinese, Armenians, Russians, and Germans remain foreigners. So does everyone except the blacks. There is no doubt but that the blacks exercise great influence in North America, and, no matter what anyone says, they are the most delicate, spiritual element in that world.

At the heart of all great art is an essential melancholy.

As I have not worried to be born, I do not worry to die.