I witness with pleasure the supreme achievement of memory, which is the masterly use it makes of innate harmonies when gathering to its fold the suspended and wandering tonalities of the past.

Play! Invent the world! Invent reality!

When I receive a new novel from a hopeful publisher - "hoping that I like the book as much as he does" - I check first of all how much dialog there is, and if it looks too abundant or too sustained, I shut the book with a bang.

If I correctly understand the sense of this succinct observation, our poet suggests here that human life is but a series of footnotes to a vast obscure unfinished masterpiece.

We loved each other with a premature love, marked by a fierceness that so often destroys adult lives.

I know more than I can express in words, and the little I can express would not have been expressed, had I not known more.

Coordinating there Events and objects with remote events And vanished objects. Making ornaments Of accidents and possibilities.