And all times are one time, and all those dead in the past never lived before our definition gives them life, and out of the shadow their eyes implore us. That is what all of us historical researchers believe. And we love truth.

For whatever you live is life.

What if angry vectors veer Round your sleeping head, and form. There's never need to fear Violence of the poor world's abstract storm.

For what is a poem but a hazardous attempt at self-understanding: it is the deepest part of autobiography.

Nobody had ever told me that anything could be like this.

More and more Emerson recedes grandly into history, as the future he predicted becomes a past.

If something takes too long, something happens to you. You become all and only the thing you want and nothing else, for you have paid too much for it, too much in wanting and too much in waiting and too much in getting.