The personality of the artist, at first a cry or a cadence or a mood and then a fluid, and lambent narrative, finally refines itself out of existence, impersonalises itself, so to speak. The aesthetic image in the dramatic form is life purified in and reprojected from the human imagination. The mystery of aesthetic like that of material creation is accomplished. The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.

The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit.

He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life

There is only one thing that makes any one athlete better than another, his heart. We all put our underwear on feet first, so we are all human.

Beware the horns of a bull, the heels of the horse, and the smile of an Englishman.

I don't want to die. Damn death. Long live life.

When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flown at it to hold it back from flight.