The situation is that of him who is helpless, cannot act, in the event cannot paint, since he is obliged to paint. The act is of him who, helpless, unable to act, acts, in the event paints, since he is obliged to paint.

All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead.

It is right that he too should have his little chronicle, his memories, his reason, and be able to recognize the good in the bad, the bad in the worst, and so grow gently old down all the unchanging days, and die one day like any other day, only shorter.

We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.

To find a form that accommodates the shape of the mess, that is the task of the artist now.

We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?

All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.