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

All of our ideas come from the natural world: trees equal umbrellas.

Fromage and coffee and cognac and no gods.

We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.

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

Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill.

Imagination is the will of things. . . .