Excess Is The Common Substitute For Energy.

The Ocean, Under The Pulsation Of Lighthouses And Noise Of Bell Buoys, Advances As Usual, Looking As If It Were Not That Ocean In Which Dropped Things Are Bound To Sink-- In Which If They Turn And Twist, It Is Neither With Volition Nor Consciousness.

There Is A Great Amount Of Poetry In Unconscious Fastidiousness.

One Writes Because One Has A Burning Desire To Objectify What It Is Indispensable To One's Happiness To Express.

There Is No Pleasure Subtler Than The Sensation Of Being A Good Workman; And In Work There Is The Sense Of Consanguinity-unconscious As A Rule But Sometimes Conscious.

Poetry Is The Art Of Creating Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads.