Speech is an old torn net, through which the fish escape as one casts it over them.

It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.

Consolation for those moments when you can't tell whether you're the divinest genius or the greatest fool in the world.

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

I will achieve in my life - Heaven grant that it be not long - some gigantic amalgamation between the two discrepancies so hideously apparent to me. Out of my suffering I will do it. I will knock. I will enter.

One ought to sink to the bottom of the sea, probably, and live alone with one's words.

My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.