Poetry, Being Elegance Itself, Cannot Hope To

Nothing Is More Intriguing Than A Still Photograph In The Middle Of A Motion Picture... Just As An Accident Is A Cry Changed Into Silence And Not A Silence After A Cry, Photography Is Speed Rendered Motionless.

I Am Happy To Exhibit, But Not To Put Myself On Exhibition.

Nothing Ever Gets Anywhere. The Earth Keeps Turning Round And Gets Nowhere. The Moment Is The Only Thing That Counts.

I Want The Kind Of Readers Who Remain Children At Any Cost. I Can Tell Them At A Glance: Loyalty To That First Enchantment Guards Better Than Any Cosmetic; Than Any Diet, Against The Insults Of Age. But Alas For Such Readers, Who Would Huddle Safe And Sound In The Asylum Of Their Credulous Enchantment As If In The Womb-our Enervating Century Offends Them By Its Chaos, Its Fidgets Of Light And Space, The Host Of Its Excuses For Dividing , For Rending Oneself From Others And From Oneself.

The Hot Hall Full Of Painted Girls And American Soldiers Is A Saloon In Some Western Film. This Noise Drenches Us, Wakens Us To Do Something Else. It Shows Us A Lost Path.