It was the only way to progress, to stop.

My notes have a curious tendency, as I realize at last, to annihilate all they purport to record.

Habit is a great deadener.

Where am I, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.

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

The dust will not settle in our time. And when it does some great roaring machine will come and whirl it all skyhigh again.

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