Love is most nearly itself When here and now cease to matter.

Hungry Hatred, will not strive against intelligence self-interest.

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.

I do not believe that any writer has ever exposed this bovarysme, the human will to see things as they are not, more clearly than Shakespeare.

We fight for lost causes because we know that our defeat and dismay may be the preface to our successors' victory, though that victory itself will be temporary; we fight rather to keep something alive than in the expectation that anything will triumph.

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

He is haunted by a demon, a demon against which he feels powerless, because in its first manifestation it has no face, no name, nothing; and the words, the poem he makes, are a kind of exorcism of this demon.