He found in the world without as actual what was in his world within as possible.

Ulysses is son to Laertes, but he is father to Telemachus, husband to Penelope, lover of Calypso, companion in arms of the Greek warriors around Troy, and King of Ithaca. He was subjected to many trials, but with wisdom and courage came through them all.... he is a complete man as well, a good man.

We are bound together by the sympathy of our antipathies.

Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. One fine day it gets bunged up and there you are... Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are dead.

Time is, time was, but time shall be no more.

Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?

Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality.