I Know That Poetry Is Indispensable, But

It Was The East That Should Have Sent Us Missionaries.

If A Hermit Lives In A State Of Ecstasy, His Lack Of Comfort Becomes The Height Of Comfort. He Must Relinquish It.

In Paris, Everybody Wants To Be An Actor; Nobody Is Content To Be A Spectator.

I Want The Kind Of Readers Who Remain Children At Any Cost. I Can Tell Them At A Glance: Loyalty To That First Enchantment Guards Better Than Any Cosmetic; Than Any Diet, Against The Insults Of Age. But Alas For Such Readers, Who Would Huddle Safe And Sound In The Asylum Of Their Credulous Enchantment As If In The Womb-our Enervating Century Offends Them By Its Chaos, Its Fidgets Of Light And Space, The Host Of Its Excuses For Dividing , For Rending Oneself From Others And From Oneself.

Take A Commonplace, Clean It And Polish It, Light It So That It Produces The Same Effect Of Youth And Freshness And Originality And Spontaneity As It Did Originally, And You Have Done A Poet's Job. The Rest Is Literature.