Look At This Tangle Of Thorns.

Solitude Is The Playfield Of Satan.

…she Was, Obviously, One Of Those Women Whose Polished Words May Reflect A Book Club Or Bridge Club, Or Any Other Deadly Conventionality, But Never Her Soul.

I Was The Shadow Of The Waxwing Slain/by The False Azure In The Windowpane.

How Small The Cosmos (a Kangaroo's Pouch Would Hold It), How Paltry And Puny In Comparison To Human Consciousness, To A Single Individual Recollection, And Its Expression In Words!

At Eight, He Had Once Told His Mother That He Wanted To Paint Air.