It is a singular reaction, this sitting still and writing, writing, writing, or ruminating at length, which is much the same, really.

while the scientist sees everything that happens in one point of space, the poet feels everything that happens in one point of time.

My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three, and, save for a pocket of warmth in the darkest past, nothing of her subsists within the hollows and dells of memory, over which, if you can still stand my style (I am writing under observation), the sun of my infancy had set: surely, you all know those redolent remnants of day suspended, with the midges, about some hedge in bloom or suddenly entered and traversed by the rambler, at the bottom of a hill, in the summer dusk; a furry warmth, golden midges.

Resemblances are the shadows of differences. Different people see different similarities and similar differences.

Poor Knight! he really had two periods, the firsta dull man writing broken English, the seconda broken man writing dull English.

Suddenly for no earthly reason I felt immensely sorry for him and longed to say something real, something with wings and a heart, but the birds I wanted settled on my shoulders and head only later when I was alone and not in need of words.

Revelation can be more perilous than Revolution.