Every life is in many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love. But always meeting ourselves.

The men that is now is only all palaver and what they can get out of you.

Wipe your glasses with what you know.

A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk.

[A writer is] a priest of eternal imagination, transmuting the daily bread of experience into the radiant body of everliving life.

Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.

When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once.