The Poet's Mind Is In Fact A

We Have All Our Private Terrors, Our Particular Shadows, Our Secret Fears. We Are Afraid In A Fear Which We Cannot Face, Which None Understands, And Our Hearts Are Torn From Us, Our Brains Unskinned Like The Layers Of An Onion, Ourselves The Last.

There Is No Method But To Be Very Intelligent.

I Read, Much Of The Night, And Go South In The Winter.

You Will Find That You Survive Humiliation. And That's An Experience Of Incalculable Value.

Men Dislike Being Awakened From Their Death In Life.