How full of trifles everything is! It is only one's thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture.

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.

Everything is complicated; if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.

The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.

A pear should come to the table popped with juice, Ripened in warmth and served in warmth. On terms Like these, autumn beguiles the fatalist.

The imagination is the liberty of the mind It is intrpeid and eager and the extreme of its achievement lies in abstraction.

in the presence of extraordinary actuality, consciousness takes the place of imagination.