All good art is in the nature of a letter written to amuse a sick friend. Too much art, particularly in our time, is only a letter written to oneself.

It is a sad fact about our culture that a poet can earn much more money writing or talking about his art than he can by practicing it.

Human beings are, necessarily, actors who...can be divided...into the sane who know they are acting and the mad who do not.

Lay your sleeping head, my love, Human on my faithless arm.

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.

Learn from your dreams what you lack.

The stars are dead. The animals will not look: We are left alone with our day, and the time is short, and History to the defeated May say Alas but cannot help nor pardon.