The question that he frames in all but words is what to make of a diminished thing.

What you want, what you're hanging around in the world waiting for, is for something to occur to you.

Freud was way off base in considering sex the fundamental motivation. The ruling passion in men is minding each other's business.

My definition of poetry (if I were forced to give one) would be this: words that have become deeds.

How many times it thundered before Franklin took the hint! How many apples fell on Newton's head before he took the hint! Nature is always hinting at us. It hints over and over again. And suddenly we take the hint.

I have miles to go before I sleep.

And were an epitaph to be my story I'd have a short one ready for my own. I would have written of me on my stone: I had a lover's quarrel with the world.