But memory, after a time, dispenses its own emphasis, making a feuilleton of what we once thought most ponderable, laying its wreath on what we never thought to recall.
How clerks love refusing. It salves them for being clerks.
I always say that one's poetry is a solace to oneself and a nuisance to one's friends.
Balance is compromise. Of the muscles.
Speech isn't for agony.
This is my answer to the gap between ideas and action - I will write it out.