To me Art's subject is the human clay, / And landscape but a background to a torso; / All Cezanne's apples I would give away / For one small Goya or a Daumier.

A poet's hope: to be, like some valley cheese, local, but prized elsewhere.

I'll love you till the ocean Is folded and hung up to dry And the seven stars go squawking Like geese about the sky.

All wishes, whatever their apparent content, have the same and unvarying meaning: "I refuse to be what I am."

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

The basic stimulus to the intelligence is doubt, a feeling that the meaning of an experience is not self-evident.

Those who hate to go to bed fear death; those who hate to get up fear life.