Perhaps this very instant is your time.

... politics are nothing but sand and gravel: it is art and life that feed us until we die. Everything else is ambition, hysteria or hatred.

The intellectual is a middle-class product; if he is not born into the class he must soon insert himself into it, in order to exist. He is the fine nervous flower of the bourgeoisie.

I hope that one or two immortal lyrics will come out of all this tumbling around.

Women have no wilderness in them They are provident instead Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.

All art, in spite of the struggles of some critics to prove otherwise, is based on emotion and projects emotion.

It is almost impossible for the poetess, once laurelled, to take off the crown for good or to reject values and taste of those who tender it.