Human Kind Cannot Bear Much Reality.

Composing On The Typewriter, I Find That I Am Sloughing Off All My Long Sentences Which I Used To Dote Upon. Short, Staccato, Like Modern French Prose. The Typewriter Makes For Lucidity, But I Am Not Sure That It Encourages Subtlety.

Anxiety Is The Hand Maiden Of Creativity.

April Is The Cruelest Month, Breeding Lilacs Out Of The Dead Land, Mixing Memory And Desire, Stirring Dull Roots With Spring Rain.

Poetry Is Not A Turning Loose Of Emotion, But An Escape From Emotion.

Each Venture Is A New Beginning, A Raid On The Inarticulate With Shabby Equipment Always Deteriorating In The General Mess Of Imprecision Of Feeling.