I was the world in which I walked.

It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.

The genuine artist is never 'true to life.' He sees what is real, but not as we are normally aware of it. We do not go storming through life like actors in a play. Art is never real life.

You like it under the trees in autumn, because everything is half dead. The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves and repeats words without menaing.

Realism is a corruption of reality.

The mind is smaller than the eye.

In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all.