I am the angel of Reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.

It's not always easy to tell the difference between thinking and looking out of the window.

It is never the thing but the version of the thing.

I was myself the compass of that sea: I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself; And there I found myself more truly and more strange.

Everything is complicated; if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.

The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.

The fire burns as the novel taught it how.