There is no comment on pictures but pictures, on music but music, on poems but poetry. If you do, you do. If you don't, you don't. And that's all there is to that.

No wreaths please - especially no hothouse flowers. Some common memento is better, something he prized and is known by: his old clothes - a few books perhaps.

O frost bitten blossoms, That are unfolding your wings From out the envious black branches. Bloom quickly and make much of the sunshine. The twigs conspire against you! Hear hem! They hold you from behind.

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

The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together.

History, history! We fools, what do we know or care.

Houses - the dark side silhouetted on flashes of moonlight!