Words have no word for words that are not true.

All the rest is silence On the other side of the wall, And the silence ripeness, And the ripeness all.

The glacier knocks in the cupboard, The desert sighs in the bed, And the crack in the teacup opens A lane to the land of the dead.

It is already possible to imagine a society in which the majority of the population, that is to say, its laborers, will have almost as much leisure as in earlier times was enjoyed by the aristocracy. When one recalls how aristocracies in the past actually behaved, the prospect is not cheerful.

The actors today really need the whip hand. They're so lazy. They haven't got the sense of pride in their profession that the less socially elevated musical comedy and music hall people or acrobats have. The theater has never been any good since the actors became gentlemen.

Each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom.

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