I like books whose virtue is all drawn together in a page or two. I like sentences that don't budge though armies cross them.

And you wish to be a poet; and you wish to be a lover.

Why does one write these books after all? The drudgery, the misery, the grind, are forgotten everytime; and one launches another, and it seems sheer joy and buoyancy.

Somewhere, everywhere, now hidden, now apparent in what ever is written down, is the form of a human being. If we seek to know him, are we idly occupied?

One should aim, seriously, at disregarding ups and downs; a compliment here, silence there ... the central fact remains stable, which is the fact of my own pleasure in the art.

Her life was a tissue of vanity and deceit.

I ride rough waters, and shall sink with no one to save me.