Conscious Writing Can Be The Death Of

I, Too, Dislike It. Reading It, However, With A Perfect Contempt For It, One Discovers In It, After All, A Place For The Genuine.

Psychology, Which Explains Everything, Explains Nothing, And We Are Still In Doubt.

The Hands Are The Heart's Messengers.

One Detects Creative Power By Its Capacity To Conquer One's Detachment.

I See No Reason For Calling My Work Poetry Except That There Is No Other Category In Which To Put It.