To live in the world but outside of existing conceptions of it.

Nothing could be more inappropriate to American literature than its English source since the Americans are not British in sensibility.

Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.

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.

Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.

Out of this same light, out of the central mind, We make a dwelling in the evening air, In which being there together is enough.

How red the rose that is the soldier