Novels are about other people and poems are about yourself.

The only way to eliminate unemployment is to eliminate unemployment benefits.

Get stewed:Books are a load of crap.

Home is so sad. It stays as it was left, / Shaped to the comfort of the last to go / As if to win them back

I have a sense of melancholy isolation, life rapidly vanishing, all the usual things. It's very strange how often strong feelings don't seem to carry any message of action

The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief. Is it that they are born again And we grow old? No, they die too. Their yearly trick of looking new Is written down in rings of grain. Yet still the unresting castles thresh In fullgrown thickness every May. Last year is dead, they seem to say, Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

Something, like nothing, happens anywhere.