Am I too fast, too facile? I do not know. I do not know myself sometimes, or how to measure and name and count out the grains that make me what I am.

We can best help you to prevent war not by repeating your words and following your methods but by finding new words and creating new methods.

I see nothing. We may sink and settle on the waves. The sea will drum in my ears. The white petals will be darkened with sea water. They will float for a moment and then sink. Rolling over the waves will shoulder me under. Everything falls in a tremendous shower, dissolving me.

We are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.

. . . clumsiness is often mated with a love of solitude.

A thousand things to be written had I time: had I power. A very little writing uses up my capacity for writing.

One cannot bring children into a world like this. One cannot perpetuate suffering, or increase the breed of these lustful animals, who have no lasting emotions, but only whims and vanities, eddying them now this way, now that.