The descent beckons as the ascent beckoned

beauty’ is related not to ‘loveliness’ but to a state in which reality plays a part.

It is difficult to get the news from poetry, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.

Most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see them

A poem is a small machine made of words. . .Its movement is intrinsic, undulant, a physical more than a literary character.

Man has survived hitherto because he was too ignorant to know how to realise his wishes- Now that he can realise them, he must either change them or perish

Writing is not a searching about in the daily experience for apt similes and pretty thoughts and images… It is not a conscious recording of the day’s experiences ‘freshly and with the appearance of reality’… The writer of imagination would find himself released from observing things for the purpose of writing them down later. He would be there to enjoy, to taste, to engage the free world, not a world which he carries like a bag of food, always fearful lest he drop something or someone get more than he.