Books, books, books. It was not that I read so much. I read and re-read the same ones. But all of them were necessary to me. Their presence, their smell, the letters of their titles, and the texture of their leather bindings.

To a poet, silence is an acceptable response, even a flattering one.

January, month of empty pockets! let us endure this evil month, anxious as a theatrical producer's forehead.

Total absence of humor renders life impossible.

Sincerity is not a spontaneous flower nor is modesty either.

Books, books, books. It was not that I read so much. I read and re-read the same ones. But all of them were necessary to me. Their presence, their smell, the letters of their titles, and the texture of their leather bindings.

We only do well the things we like doing.