Love requited is a short circuit.

Finished, it's finished, nearly finished, it must be nearly finished. Grain upon grain, one by one, and one day, suddenly, there's a heap, a little heap, the impossible heap. I can't be punished any more. I'll go now to my kitchen, ten feet by ten feet by ten feet, and wait for him to whistle me. Nice dimensions, nice proportions, I'll lean on the table, and look at the wall, and wait for him to whistle me.

Nothing is more real than nothing.

You are not satisfied unless form is so strictly divorced from content that you can comprehend the one without almost without bothering to read the other.

There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.

There is at least this to be said for mind, that it can dispel mind.

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