life is long between the desire and the spasm.

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.

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.

After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions Guides us by vanities.

There is one who remembers the way to your door: Life you may evade, but Death you shall not.

Dante and Shakespeare divide the world between them. There is no third.

The Civil War is not ended: I question whether any serious civil war ever does end.