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.

... 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.

I have lost faith in universal panaceas - work is the one thing in which I really believe.

O remember In your narrowing dark hours That more things move Than blood in the heart.

True revolutions in art restore more than they destroy.

No more pronouncements on lousy verse. No more hidden competition. No more struggling not to be a square.

At midnight tears Run into your ears.