Now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

The mystical life is the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write. . . . I have always considered myself a voice of what I believe to be a greater renaissance - the revolt of the soul against the intellect.

I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic's heart.

The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.

I spit into the face of time that has transfigured me

It seems to me that true love is a discipline.

And God, the herdsman, goads them on behind.