One of the quainter quirks of life is that we shall never know who dies on the dame day as we do ourselves.
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Only in books the flat and final happens, Only in dreams we meet and interlock.
Home is so sad. It stays as it was left, / Shaped to the comfort of the last to go / As if to win them back
Boys dream of native girls who bring breadfruit, Whatever they are.
Now, helpless in the hollow of An unarmorial age, a trough Of smoke in slow suspended skeins Above their scrap of history, Only an attitude remains: Time has transfigured them into Untruth. The stone finality They hardly meant has come to be Their final blazon, and to prove Our almost-instinct almost true: What will survive of us is love.
Life is first boredom, then fear.
No one can tear your thread out of himself. No one can tie you down or set you free.
I have wished you something None of the others would.
I am beginning to think of the human imagination as a fruit machine on which victories are rare and separated by much vain expense, and represent a rare alignment of mental and spiritual qualities that normally are quite at odds.
Above all, though, children are linked to adults by the simple fact that they are in process of turning into them. For this they may be forgiven much. Children are bound to be inferior to adults, or there is no incentive to grow up.
Here is an unfenced existance
Things are tougher than we are, just As earth will always respond However we mess it about.
Saki says that youth is like hors d'oeuvres: you are so busy thinking of the next courses you don't notice it. When you've had them, you wish you'd had more hors d'oeuvres.
I wonder love can have already set In dreams, when we've not met More times than I can number on one hand.
A writer once said to me, If you ever go to America, go either to the East Coast or the West Coast: The rest is a desert full of bigots. That's what I think I'd like . . . a version of pastoral.
I like spaghetti because you don't have to take your eyes off the book to pick about among it, it's all the same.
I wouldn't mind seeing China if I could come back the same day.
To put one brick upon another, Add a third, and then a fourth, Leaves no time to wonder whether What you do has any worth.
Novels seem to me to be richer, broader, deeper, more enjoyable than poems.
What are days for? Days are where we live.
To start at a new place is always to feel incompetent & unwanted.
Sex means nothing--just the moment of ecstasy, that flares and dies in minutes.
My mother, who hates thunderstorms, Holds up each summer day and shakes It out suspiciously, lest swarms Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there.
In everyone there sleeps. A sense of life lived according to love. To some it means the difference they could make. By loving others, but across most it sweeps. As all they might have done had they been loved. That nothing cures.
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