… imaginary gardens with real toads in them …… if you demand on one hand,the raw material of poetry inall its rawness andthat which is on the other handgenuine, then you are interested in poetry.
Poetry…… a place for the genuine,Hands that can grasp, eyesthat can dilate, hair that can rise
Any writer overwhelmingly honest about pleasing himself is almost sure to please others.
They fought the enemy, we fight fat living and self-pity. Shine, o shine, unfalsifying sun, on this sick scene.
You are not male or female, but a plandeep-set within the heart of man.
Psychology which explains everything, explains nothing.
The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence.
Yule—Yul log for the Christmas-fire tale-spinner—of fairy tales that can come true: Yul Brynner.
I am hard to disgust, but a pretentious poet can do it
As contagion of sickness makes sickness contagion of trust can make trust.
You’re not free until you’ve been made captive by supreme belief.
When one is frank one’s very presence is a compliment.
The passion for setting people right is in itself an afflictive disease.
If technique is of no interest to a writer, I doubt that the writer is an artist.
Impatience is the mark of independence, not of bondage.
As contagion of sickness makes sickness, contagion of trust can make trust.
Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads.