Was I Asleep? Had I Slept?

That Desert Of Loneliness And Recrimination That Men Call Love.

Reality, Whether Approached Imaginatively Or Empirically, Remains A Surface, Hermetic.

You're On Earth. There's No Cure For That.

Absolute Virtue Is As Sure To Kill A Man As Absolute Vice Is, Let Alone The Dullness Of It And The Pomposities Of It.

All I Know Is What The Words Know, And Dead Things, And That Makes A Handsome Little Sum, With A Beginning And A Middle And An End, As In The Well-built Phrase And The Long Sonata Of The Dead.