I should allow only my heart to have imagination; and for the rest rely on memory, that long drawn sunset of one’s personal truth.
Which arrow flies for ever? The arrow that has hit its mark.
All the seven deadly sins are peccadilloes but without three of them, Pride, Lust, and Sloth, poetry might never have been born.
Literature and butterflies are the two sweetest passions known to man.
There is only one school of literature – that of talent.
Poor Knight! he really had two periods, the firsta dull man writing broken English, the seconda broken man writing dull English.
Stirless, I stand at the window, and in the black bowl of the sky glows like a golden drop of honey the mellow moon.
I cannot disobey something which I do not know and the reality of which I have the right to deny.
Maybe the only thing that hints at a sense of Time is rhythm; not the recurrent beats of the rhythm but the gap between two such beats, the gray gap between black beats: the Tender Interval.
There is no science without fancy and no art without fact.
I still dwelled deep in my elected paradise – a paradise whose skies were the color of hell-flames – but still a paradise.
And she was mine, she was mine, the key was in my fist, my fist was in my pocket, she was mine.
Literature is invention. Fiction is fiction. To call a story a true story is an insult to both truth and art.
Imagine me; I shall not exist if you do not imagine me; try to discern the doe in me, trembling in the forest of my own iniquity; let’s even smile a little. After all, there is no harm in smiling.
Words without experience are meaningless.
There is only one real number: one. And love, apparently, is the best exponent of this singularity.
Look at this tangle of thorns.
The sun is a thief: she lures the sea and robs it. The moon is a thief: he steals his silvery light from the sun. The sea is a thief: it dissolves the moon.
You lose your immortality when you lose your memory.
Beauty plus pity – that is the closest we can get to a definition of art.