But they know about us, they know, the four corners, and the chairs nearby us. Discerning shadows also know, and even the table keeps quiet.

They say the first sentence in any speech is always the hardest. Well, that one's behind me, anyway.

There's simply too much fuss about myself.

The joy of writing. The power of preserving. Revenge of a mortal hand.

Though I may deny poets their monopoly on inspiration, I still place them in a select group of Fortune's darlings.

Loveless work, boring work, work valued only because others haven't got even that much, however loveless and boring - this is one of the harshest human miseries.

Nothing's a gift, it's all on loan