The descent beckons as the ascent beckoned

When I am alone I am happy.

A new world is only a new mind.

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.

It is almost impossible to state what one in fact believes, because it is almost impossible to hold a belief and to define it at the same time.

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year.

You lethargic, waiting upon me, waiting for the fire and I attendant upon you, shaken by your beauty Shaken by your beauty Shaken.