No place of grace for those who avoid the Face. No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the Voice.
If we are moved by a poem, it has meant something, perhaps something important, to us; if we are not moved, then it is, as poetry, meaningless.
We read many books, because we cannot know enough people.
There will be time to murder and create.
Artistic inevitability lies in the complete adequacy of the external to the emotion.
Our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves, and of our visible, sensible world.