We spend our life, it's ours, trying to bring together in the same instant a ray of sunshine and a free bench
Deplorable mania, when something happens, to inquire what.
All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.
Mysterious affair, electricity.
To be an artist is to fail, as no other dare fail, that failure is his world and the shrink from desertion, art and craft, good housekeeping, living.
The only sin is the sin of being born.