Death will be too late to bring us aid.

As birds' wings beat the solid air without which none could fly so words freed by the imagination affirm reality by their flight.

I pick the hair from her eyes and watch her misery with compassion.

What can any of us do with his talent but try to develop his vision, so that through frequent failures we may learn better what we have missed in the past.

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.

The instant trivial as it is is all we have unless-unless things the imagination feeds upon, the scent of the rose, startle us anew.

Dissonance / (if you are interested) / leads to discovery.