Money cannot buy the fuel of love but is excellent kindling.

Every poet has his dream reader: mine keeps a look out for curious prosodic fauna like bacchics and choriambs.

No poet or novelist wishes he were the only one who ever lived, but most of them wish they were the only one alive, and quite a number fondly believe their wish has been granted.

Yet no one hears his own remarks as prose.

No hero is mortal till he dies.

If age, which is certainly Just as wicked as youth, look any wiser, It is only that youth is still able to believe It will get away with anything, while age Knows only too well that it has got away with nothing.

Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links, Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks, Under the look of fatigue, the attack of migraine and the sigh There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.