With her foot on the threshold she waited a moment longer in a scene which was vanishing even as she looked, and then, as she moved and took Minta's arm and left the room, it changed, it shaped itself differently; it had become, she knew, giving one last look at it over her shoulder, already the past.

The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely imaging.

Boredom is the legitimate kingdom of the philanthropic.

I'm terrified of passive acquiescence. I live in intensity.

Who shall measure the hat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?

Tom's great yellow bronze mask all draped upon an iron framework. An inhibited, nerve-drawn; dropped face - as if hung on a scaffold of heavy private brooding; and thought.

It is only by putting it into words that I make it whole. This wholeness means that it has lost its power to hurt me; it gives me, perhaps because by doing so I take away the pain, a great delight to put the severed parts together