Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too, don't I? I'm just like a pile of leaves.

I am ashamed of my century for being so entertaining but I have to smile.

There is a geography which holds its hands just so far from the breast and pushes you away, crying so.

Pain always produces logic, which is very bad for you.

Oh! kangaroos, sequins, chocolate sodas! / You really are beautiful! Pearls, / harmonicas, jujubes, aspirins!

The poem is at last between two persons instead of two pages. In all modesty, I confess that it may be the death of literature as we know it.

My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time; they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away. Or again at something after it has given me up.