It is suicide to be abroad. But what it is to be at home, ... what it is to be at home? A lingering dissolution.

My work is a matter of fundamental sounds (no joke intended) made as fully as possible, and I accept responsibility for nothing else. If people want to have headaches among the overtones, let them. And provide their own aspirin.

I am still alive then. That may come in useful.

What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.

Tears and laughter, they are so much Gaelic to me.

There's no lack of void.

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