It's a pity one can't imagine what one can't compare to anything. Genius is an African who dreams up snow.

I would like to spare the time and effort of hack reviewers and, generally, persons who move their lips when reading.

Happy is the novelist who manages to preserve an actual love letter that he received when he was young within a work of fiction, embedded in it like a clean bullet in flabby flesh and quite secure there, among spurious lives.

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.

Age indomitably, in the European manner. Do not finish your labours young. Be a planet, not a meteor. Honor the working day. Sit at your desk.

I was the shadow of the waxwing slain/By the false azure in the windowpane.

It is a short walk from the hallelujah to the hoot.