A strange thing has happened - while all the other arts were born naked, this, the youngest, has been born fully-clothed. It can say everything before it has anything to say. It is as if the savage tribe, instead of finding two bars of iron to play with, had found scattering the seashore fiddles, flutes, saxophones, trumpets, grand pianos by Erhard and Bechstein, and had begun with incredible energy, but without knowing a note of music, to hammer and thump upon them all at the same time.

Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.

How far we are going to read a poet when we can read about a poet is a problem to lay before biographers.

Surely it was time someone invented a new plot, or that the author came out from the bushes.

The habit of writing for my eye is good practice. It loosens the ligaments.

Only longing can fill with more of itself.

Never did anybody look so sad. Bitter and black, halfway down, in the darkness, in the shaft which ran from the sunlight to the depths, perhaps a tear formed; a tear fell; the waves swayed this way and that, received it, and were at rest. Never did anybody look so sad.