The Flesh Is Sad, Alas, And I

I Have Made A Long Enough Descent Into The Void To Speak With Certainty. There Is Nothing But Beauty--and Beauty Has Only One Perfect Expression, Poetry. All The Rest Is A Lie.

Poets Don't Finish Poems, They Abandon Them.

The World Was Made In Order To Result In A Beautiful Book.

Every Soul Is A Melody Which Needs Renewing.

In A Museum In London There Is An Exhibit Called "the Value Of Man": A Long Coffinlike Box With Lots Of Compartments Where They've Put Starch Phosphorus Flour Bottles Of Water And Alcohol And Big Pieces Of Gelatin. I Am A Man Like That.