It is not inspiration; it is expiration.

Not only should you not accept a prize. You should not try to deserve one either.

Be a mere assistant to your unconscious. Do only half the work. The rest will do itself.

One sits down first; one thinks afterwards.

He has the manner of a giant with the look of a child, a lazy activeness, a mad wisdom, a solitude encompassing the world.

If a hermit lives in a state of ecstasy, his lack of comfort becomes the height of comfort. He must relinquish it.

Take a commonplace, clean it and polish it, light it so that it produces the same effect of youth and freshness and originality and spontaneity as it did originally, and you have done a poet's job. The rest is literature.