Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?

How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?

At 46 one must be a miser; only have time for essentials.

Ransack the language as he might, words failed him. He wanted another landscape, and another tongue.

... the random talk of people who have no chance of immortality and thus can speak their minds out has a setting, often, of lights, streets, houses, human beings, beautiful or grotesque, which will weave itself into the moment for ever.

Soup is cuisines kindest course

But what a little I can get down into my pen of what is so vivid to my eyes, and not only to my eyes; also to some nervous fibre, or fanlike membrane in my species.