Trying to use words, and every attempt Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure Because one has only learnt to get the better of words For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate With shabby equipment always deteriorating In the general mess of imprecision of feeling.

With cats, some say, one rule is true: Don't speak till you are spoken to.

Where is the Life we lost in living?

In a world of fugitives the one who stays home will seem to be running away

And they write innumerable books; being too vain and distracted for silence: seeking every one after his own elevation, and dodging his emptiness.

We know too much, and are convinced of too little. Our literature is a substitute for religion, and so is our religion.

I've been born, and once is enough.