Composing on the typewriter, I find that I am sloughing off all my long sentences which I used to dote upon. Short, staccato, like modern French prose. The typewriter makes for lucidity, but I am not sure that it encourages subtlety.

The overwhelming pressure of mediocrity, sluggish and indomitable as a glacier, will mitigate the most violent, and depress the most exalted revolution.

The fool,fixed in his folly,may think He can turn the wheel on which he turns.

Accident is design / And design is accident / In a cloud of unknowing.

There is no method but to be very intelligent.

And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Words strain, Crack and sometimes break, under the burden, Under the tension, slip, slide, perish, Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place, Will not stay still.