If the poet can no longer speak for society, but only for himself, then we are at the last ditch.

Every moment is a golden one for him who has the vision to recognize it as such.

I saw through to the last sign and symbol, but I could not read her face. I could see only the eyes shining through, huge, fleshy-like luminous beasts, as though I were swimming behind them in the electric effluvia of her incandescent vision.

A book lying idle on a shelf is wasted ammunition.

He is trying to recapture his innocence, yet all he succeeds in doing (by writing) is to inoculate the world with a virus of his disillusionment.

For one crime which is expiated in prison ten thousand are committed thoughtlessly by those who condemn.

Los Angeles gives one the feeling of the future more strongly than any city I know of. A bad future, too, like something out of Fritz Lang's feeble imagination.