So the lover must struggle for words.

April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.

Dear Mother, I am getting on nicely in my work at the bank, and like it ... I want to find out something about the science of money while I am at it; it is an extraordinarily interesting subject.

Where does one go from a world of insanity? Somewhere on the other side of despair.

Whatever you do, don't whimper, but take the consequences.

There are flood and drought over the eyes and in the mouth, dead water and dead sand contending for the upper hand. The parched eviscerate soil gapes at the vanity of toil, laughs without mirth. This is the death of the earth.

Someone said, 'The dead writers are remote from us because we know so much more than they did.' Precisely, and they are that which we know.