There Are Poets And There Are Grownups.

A Little Too Much Is Just Enough For Me.

The World Owes Its Enchantment To These Curious Creatures And Their Fancies; But Its Multiple Complicity Rejects Them. Thistledown Spirits, Tragic, Heartrending In Their Evanescence, They Must Go Blowing Headlong To Perdition.

Mirrors Should Think Longer Before They Reflect.

The Poet Doesn't Invent. He Listens.

What Is Line? It Is Life. A Line Must Live At Each Point Along Its Course In Such A Way That The Artist's Presence Makes Itself Felt Above That Of The Model... With The Writer, Line Takes Precedence Over Form And Content. It Runs Through The Words He Assembles. It Strikes A Continuous Note Unperceived By Ear Or Eye. It Is, In A Way, The Soul's Style, And If The Line Ceases To Have A Life Of Its Own, If It Only Describes An Arabesque, The Soul Is Missing And The Writing Dies.