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.

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

But it's silly to suggest the writing of poetry is something ethereal, a sort of soul-crashing, devastating emotional experience that wrings you. I have no fancy ideas about poetry. ... It doesn't come to you on the wings of a dove. It's something you have to work hard at.

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

Up from the bronze, I saw Water without a flaw Rush to its rest in air Reach to its rest, and fall.

Innocence of heart and violence of feeling are necessary in any kind of superior achievement: The arts cannot exist without them.

Because language is the carrier of ideas, it is easy to believe that it should be very little else than such a carrier.