Money is a kind of poetry.

...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.

Unfortunately there is nothing more inane than an Easter carol. It is a religious perversion of the activity of Spring in our blood.

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

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.

Next to love is the desire for love.

Imagination is the will of things. . . .