The people in the world, and the objects in it, and the world as a whole, are not absolute things, but on the contrary, are the phenomena of perception... If we were all alike: if we were millions of people saying do, re, mi, in unison, One poet would be enough... But we are not alone, and everything needs expounding all the time because, as people live and die, each one perceiving life and death for himself, and mostly by and in himself, there develops a curiosity about the perceptions of others. This is what makes it possible to go on saying new things about old things.

The fire burns as the novel taught it how.

Imagination...is the irrepressible revolutionist.

We live in an old chaos of the sun.

The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.

The imagination is man's power over nature.

How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?