The sky sinks in the morning, this fact has been insufficiently observed.
The day you die is just like any other, only shorter.
You are not satisfied unless form is so strictly divorced from content that you can comprehend the one without almost without bothering to read the other.
The loss of my sight was a great fillip. If I could go deaf and dumb I think I might pant on to be a hundred.
Two in distressmake sorrow less.
Name, no, nothing is nameable, tell, no, nothing can be told, what then, I don’t know, I shouldn’t have begun.
Over, over, there is a soft place in my heart for all that is over, no, for the being over, words have been my only loves, not many.
Words fail, there are times when even they fail.
What is more true than anything else? To swim is true and to sink is true. One cannot speak any more of being, one must speak onlyof the mess.
The end of a life is always vivifying.
Never but the one matter. The dead and gone. The dying and going. From the word go.
All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.
Don’t touch me! Don’t question me! Don’t speak to me! Stay with me!
You cried for night – it falls. Now cry in darkness.
How hideous is the semicolon.
My dear Tom, Delighted to get your letter. Do write again. This life is terrible and I don’t understand how it can be endured.
The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain.
Spend the years of learning squandering Courage for the years of wandering Through a world politely turning From the loutishness of learning.
Silence, yes, but what silence! For it is all very fine to keep silence, but one has also to consider the kind of silence one keeps.
Yes, light, there is no other word for it.