Only In Dreams, In Poetry, In Play

Now That I Think About It, It Seems To Me That’s What Idiocy Is: The Ability To Be Enthusiastic All The Time About Anything You Like, So That A Drawing On The Wall Does Not Have To Be Diminished By The Memory Of The Frescoes Of Giotto In Padua.

Wordplay Hides A Key To Reality That The Dictionary Tries In Vain To Lock Inside Every Free Word.

Of All Our Feelings The Only One Which Really Doesn't Belong To Us Is Hope. Hope Belongs To Life, It's Life Itself Defending Itself. Etcetera.

(memory Is) A Strange Echo, Which Stores Its Replicas According To Some Other Acoustic Than Consciousness Or Expectation.

The More A Book Is Like An Opium Pipe, The More The Chinaman Reader Is Satisfied With It And Tends To Discuss The Quality Of The Drug Rather Than Its Lethargic Effects.