The very stone one kicks with one's boot will outlast Shakespeare.

Like" and "like" and "like"--but what is the thing that lies beneath the semblance of the thing?

For books continue each other, in spite of our habit of judging them separately.

I want the concentration and the romance, and the worlds all glued together, fused, glowing: have no time to waste any more on prose.

Reading [poetry], you know, is rather like opening the door to a horde of rebels who swarm out attacking one in twenty places at once - hit, roused, scraped, bared, swung through the air, so that life seems to flash by; then again blinded, knocked on the head - all of which are agreeable sensations for a reader (since nothing is more dismal than to open the door and get no response).

I have lost friends, some by death...others by sheer inability to cross the street.

My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?