In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing

There is no absolute point of view from which real and ideal can be finally separated and labelled.

The dripping blood our only drink, The bloody flesh our only food: In spite of which we like to think That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.

Men dislike being awakened from their death in life.

So the lover must struggle for words.

I don't believe one grows older. I think that what happens early on in life is that at a certain age one stands still and stagnates.

The river itself has no beginning or end. In its beginning, it is not yet the river; in the end it is no longer the river. What we call the headwaters is only a selection from among the innumerable sources which flow together to compose it. At what point in its course does the Mississippi become what the Mississippi means?