People Make Filthy Things With The Freedom

The Only Writers Who Have Any Peace Are The Ones Who Don't Write. And There Are Some Like That. They Wallow In A Sea Of Possibilities. To Express A Thought, You First Have To Limit It, And That Means Kill It. Every Word I Speak Robs Me Of A Thousand Others, And Every Line I Write Means Giving Up Another.

Plentitude, When Too Plentitudinous, Was Worst Than Destitution, For Obviously What Could One Do, If There Was Nothing One Could Not?

I See A Poem As A Multi-coloured Strip Behind Peeling Plaster, In Separate, Shining Fragments.

In Riemann, Hilbert Or In Banach Space Let Superscripts And Subscripts Go Their Ways. Our Symptotes No Longer Out Of Phase, We Shall Encounter, Counting, Face To Face.

This Is Another Lie. We Are Only Seeking Man. We Have No Need Of Other Worlds. A Single World, Our Own, Suffices Us; But We Can't Accept It For What It Is. We Are Searching For An Ideal Image Of Our Own World: We Go In Quest Of A Planet, A Civilization Superior To Our Own But Developed On The Basis Of A Prototype Of Our Primeval Past.