I Desired My Dust To Be Mingled

I Found After Seventy Years That I Was Not A Lunatic But A Moron.... I Should Have Been Able To Do Better.

It Is Difficult To Write A Paradiso When All The Superficial Indications Are That You Ought To Write An Apocalypse.

There Is No Reason Why The Same Man Should Like The Same Books At Eighteen And At Forty-eight

Science Is Unpoetic Only To Minds Jaundiced With Sentiment And Romanticism . . . The Great Masters Of The Past Boasted All They Could Of It And Found It Magical.

Utter Originality Is, Of Course, Out Of The Question.