I used to try and concentrate the poem so much that there wasn't a word that wasn't essential. This leads to becoming boring and constipated.

The relation of faith between subject and object is unique in every case. Hundreds may believe, but each has to believe by himself.

If there are any souls in hell, it is because that is where they insist on being.

An unmanly sort of man whose love life seems to have been largely confined to crying in laps and playing mouse.

The camera may do justice to laughter, but must degrade sorrow.

Precisely because we do not communicate by singing, a song can be out of place but not out of character; it is just as credible that a stupid person should sing beautifully as that a clever person should do so.

Sob, heavy world Sob as you spin, Mantled in mist Remote from the happy.