There is a great amount of poetry in unconscious fastidiousness.
[The] whirlwind fife-and-drum of the storm bends the salt marsh grass, disturbs stars in the sky and the star on the steeple; it is a privilege to see so much confusion.
It is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing.
If technique is of no interest to a writer, I doubt that the writer is an artist.
Blessed the geniuses who know / that egomania is not a duty.
War is pillage versus resistance and if illusions of magnitude could be transmuted into ideals of magnanimity, peace might be realized.