I Suppress In My Prose Any Language

There's A Place Beyond Words Where Experience First Occurs To Which I Always Want To Return. I Suspect That Whenever I Articulate My Thoughts Or Translate My Impulses Into Words, I Am Betraying The Real Thoughts And Impulses Which Remain Hidden.

She Seemed To Belong To That Pagan, Primitive Kingdom Of Birds And Forests Where Everything Was Infinitely Abundant, Wild, Blooming, And Royal In Its Perpetual Decay, Death, And Rebirth; Illicit And Clashing With The Human World.

The Principle Of Art Is To Pause, Not Bypass.

Chance Was To Work In The Garden, Where He Would Care For Plants And Grasses And Trees Which Grew There Peacefully. He Would Be As One On Them: Quiet, Open Hearted In The Sunshine And Heavy When It Rained.

[nabokov's] Language Is Made Visible . . . Like A Veil Or Transparent Curtain. You Cannot Help Seeing The Curtain As You Peek Into The Intimate Rooms Behind.