Not philosophy, after all, not humanity, just sheer joyous power of song, is the primal thing in poetry.
Zuleika, on a desert island, would have spent most of her time in looking for a man's footprint.
Of all the objects of hatred, a woman once loved is the most hateful.
Every kind of writing is hypocritical.
Admiration involves a glorious obliquity of vision.
People who insist on telling their dreams are among the terrors of the breakfast table.