Everything Really Desirable Has Come About Because

I Don’t Believe One Reads To Escape Reality. A Person Reads To Confirm A Reality He Knows Is There, But Which He Has Not Experienced.

People Only See In Us The Contemptible Skirt-fever Which Rules Our Actions But Completely Miss The Beauty-hunger Underlying It.

To Write A Poem Is Like Trying To Catch A Lizard Without Its Tail Falling Off.

Perhaps Our Only Sickness Is To Desire A Truth Which We Cannot Bear Rather Than To Rest Content With The Fictions We Manufacture Out Of Each Other.

After All The Work Of The Philosophers On His Soul And The Doctors On His Body, What Can We Really Say We Know About A Man? That He Is, When All Is Said And Done, Just A Passage For Liquids And Solids, A Pipe Of Flesh.