Reality is not a function of the event as event, but of the relationship of that event to past, and future, events.

The poem is a little myth of man's capacity of making life meaningful.

Politics is a matter of choices, and a man doesn't set up the choices himself. And there is always a price to make a choice. You know that. You've made a choice, and you know how much it cost you. There is always a price.

The end of man is knowledge, but there is one thing he can't know. He can't know whether knowledge will save him or kill him. He will be killed, all right, but he can't know whether he is killed because of the knowledge which he has got or because of the knowledge which he hasn't got and which if he had it, would save him.

The urge to write poetry is like having an itch. When the itch becomes annoying enough, you scratch it.

Dying--shucks! If you kin handle the living, what's to be afraid of the dying?

How life is strange and changeful, and the crystal is in the steel at the point of fracture, and the toad bears a jewel in its forehead, and the meaning of moments passes like the breeze that scarcely ruffles the leaf of the willow.