Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)

I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual

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.

Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.

If one could be friendly with women, what a pleasure - the relationship so secret and private compared with relations with men. Why not write about it truthfully?

We are nauseated by the sight of trivial personalities decomposing in the eternity of print.

There is something about the present which we would not exchange, though we were offered a choice of all past ages to live in.