New York is a field of tireless and antagonistic interests undoubtedly fascinating but horribly unreal. Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.

It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.

I was the world in which I walked.

The purpose of poetry is to make life complete in itself.

Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.

True villains are extremely photogenic.

It is the imagination pressing back against the pressure of reality. It seems, in the last analysis, to have something to do with our self-preservation; and that, no doubt, is why the expression of it, the sound of its words, helps us to live our lives.