Sob, heavy world Sob as you spin, Mantled in mist Remote from the happy.
Without Art, we should have no notion of the sacred; without Science, we should always worship false gods.
Our claim to our own bodies and our world is our catastrophe.
Life is a picnic on a precipice.
A poet is a professional maker of verbal objects.
The most difficult problem in personal knowledge, whether of oneself or of others, is the problem of guessing when to think as a historian and when to think as an anthropologist.