Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.

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

The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real. When it adheres to the unreal and intensifies what is unreal, while its first effect may be extraordinary, that effect is the maximum effect that it will ever have.

Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.

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

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

I certainly do not exist from nine to six, when I am at the office.