Probably, indeed, the larger part of the labor of an author composing his work is critical labor; the labor of sifting, combining, constructing, expunging, correcting, testing. This frightful toil is as much critical as creative.

The last temptation is the greatest treason: to do the right deed for the wrong reason.

The circle of our understanding is a very restricted area.

Not less of love, but expanding Of love beyond desire, and so liberation From the Future as well as the past.

The immature poet imitates, the mature poet plagiarizes.

What have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment's surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed.

A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything)