His Life, Measured In Space And Time,

We Forget That We Are All Dead Men Conversing With Dead Men.

Art Is Endless Like A River Flowing, Passing, Yet Remaining.

In Vain Have Oceans Been Squandered On You, In Vain The Sun, Wonderfully Seen Through Whitman’s Eyes. You Have Used Up The Years And They Have Used Up You, And Still, And Still, You Have Not Written The Poem.

I Cannot Sleep Unless I Am Surrounded By Books.

I Have Always Come To Life After Coming To Books.