The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.
Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.
The final belief is to believe in a fiction, which you know to be a fiction, there being nothing else. The exquisite truth is to know that it is a fiction and that you believe in it willingly.
Make the visible a little hard to see.
Perhaps it is of more value to infuriate philosophers than to go along with them.
God is in me or else is not at all.
How has the human spirit ever survived the terrific literature with which it has had to contend?
We live in an old chaos of the sun.
The reading of a poem should be an experience. Its writing must be all the more so.
The point of vision and desire are the same.
She says, "But in contentment I still feel The need for imperishable bliss." Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams And our desires. Is there no change of death in paradise? Does ripe fruit never fall? or do the boughs Hang always heavy in that perfect sky, Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth, With rivers like our own that seek for seas They never find, the same receding shores That never touch with inarticulate pang?
I certainly do not exist from nine to six, when I am at the office.
The people in the world, and the objects in it, and the world as a whole, are not absolute things, but on the contrary, are the phenomena of perception... If we were all alike: if we were millions of people saying do, re, mi, in unison, One poet would be enough... But we are not alone, and everything needs expounding all the time because, as people live and die, each one perceiving life and death for himself, and mostly by and in himself, there develops a curiosity about the perceptions of others. This is what makes it possible to go on saying new things about old things.
The wind shifts like this: Like a human without illusions, Who still feels irrational things within her.
The mind can never be satisfied.
Freedom is like a man who kills himself Each night, an incessant butcher, whose knife Grows sharp in blood.
The wind had seized the tree and ha, and ha, It held the shivering, the shaken limbs, Then bathed its body in the leaping lake.
Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates. It is of the nature of that in which it is found, whether the poem, the manner of a god, the bearing of a man. It is not a dress.
In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all.
Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill.
There may be always a time of innocence. There is never a place.
Revolution Is the affair of logical lunatics.
The death of Satan was a tragedy For the imagination.
The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book.
I am the angel of Reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.
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