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

For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

We live in an old chaos of the sun.

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

The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.

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

After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.