That complete statement which is literature.

Illusions are to the soul what atmosphere is to the earth.

She dares me to pour myself out like a living waterfall. She dares me to enter the soul that is more than my own; she extinguishes fear in mere seconds. She lets light come through.

One likes people much better when they're battered down by a prodigious siege of misfortune than when they triumph.

I am tied down with single words. But you wander off; you slip away; you rise up higher, with words and words in phrases.

Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm; words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and falls again. I am a poet, yes. Surely I am a great poet.

... why do people who live in the country always give themselves such airs?