Praise will lead you to vanity, and blame will lead you to self-pity, and both are bad for writers.

I think that what happens in my poetic work in the future will depend on my being knocked in the face, and thrown flat, and given cancer, and all kinds of other things short of senile dementia.

Two daiquiris withdrew into a corner of a gorgeous room and one told the other a lie.

Bats have no bankers and they do not drink and cannot be arrested and pay no tax and, in general, bats have it made.

Them lady poets must not marry, pal.

This world is gradually becoming a place Where I do not care to be any more.

I cry. Evil dissolves, & love, like foam; that love. Prattle of children powers me home, my heart claps like the swan's under a frenzy of who love me & who shine.