God is gracious to some very peculiar people.

Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.

We live in an old chaos of the sun.

The final belief is to believe in a fiction, which you know to be a fiction, there being nothing else. The exquisite truth is to know that it is a fiction and that you believe in it willingly.

Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.

After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.

Key West, unfortunately, is becoming rather literary and artistic.