How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?
Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates.
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.
One's ignorance is one's chief asset.
Imagination...is the irrepressible revolutionist.
I am one of you and being one of you is being and knowing what I am and know. Yet I am the necessary Angel of earth, since, in my sight, you see the earth again.