I think that at the bottom of all art lies the impulse to preserve.
Many modern novels have a beginning, a muddle and an end.
A good poem about failure is a success.
Death: the anaesthetic from which none come round.
He married a woman to stop her getting away Now she's there all day.
And immediately Rather than words comes the thought of high windows: The sun-comprehending glass, And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.