Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.

Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight expands my blood? Why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?

Comerado, this is no book,Who touches this, touches a man,(Is it night? Are we here alone?)It is I you hold, and who holds you,I spring from the pages into your arms-decease calls me forth.

The past, the future, majesty, love - if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.

All music is is what awakes from you when you are reminded by the instruments.

You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side...The Bending forward and backward of the rowers...

The secret of it all, is to write in the gush, the throb, the flood, of the moment – to put things down without deliberation – without worrying about their style – without waiting for a fit time or place. I always worked that way. I took the first scrap of paper, the first doorstep, the first desk, and wrote – wrote, wrote…By writing at the instant the very heartbeat of life is caught.