What are our conductors giving us year after year? Only fresh corpses. Over these beautifully embalmed sonatas, toccatas, symphonies and operas the public dance the jitterbug. Night and day without let the radio drowns us in a hog-wash of the most nauseating, sentimental ditties. From the churches comes the melancholy dirge of the dead Christ, a music which is no more sacred than a rotten turnip.

The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware.

Think only what is right there, what is right under your nose to do. It's such a simple thing - that's why people can't do it.

People are like lice - they get under your skin and bury themselves there. You scratch and scratch until the blood comes, but you can't get permanently deloused.

The poem is the dream made flesh, in a two-fold sense: as work of art, and as life, which is a work of art.

Any genuine philosophy leads to action and from action back again to wonder, to the enduring fact of mystery.

What is not in the open street is false, derived, that is to say, literature.