Our high respect for a well read person is praise enough for literature.

To country people Cows are mild, And flee from any stick they throw; But I’m a timid town bred child, And all the cattle seem to know.

The more perfect the artist, the more completely separate in him will be the man who suffers and the mind which creates.

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.

This is one moment, / But know that another / Shall pierce you with a sudden painful joy.

And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.

Between the desire And the spasm, Between the potency And the existence, Between the essence And the descent, Falls the Shadow.