I am all the time thinking about poetry and fiction and you.

And you wish to be a poet; and you wish to be a lover.

No passion is stronger in the breast of man than the desire to make others believe as he believes

She belonged to a different age, but being so entire, so complete, would always stand up on the horizon, stone-white, eminent, like a lighthouse marking some past stage on this adventurous, long, long voyage, this interminable --- this interminable life.

Somewhere, everywhere, now hidden, now apparent in what ever is written down, is the form of a human being. If we seek to know him, are we idly occupied?

How far do our feelings take their colour from the dive underground? I mean, what is the reality of any feeling?

Tell me", he wanted to say, "everything in the whole world" - for he had the wildest, most absurd, extravagant ideas about poets and poetry - but how to speak to a man who does not see you? who sees ogres, satyrs, perhaps the depth of the sea instead?