Language is the mother, not the handmaiden, of thought; words will tell you things you never thought or felt before.

The religious definition of truth is not that it is universal but that it is absolute.

A feme may come, leaf-green, whose coming may give revel beyond revelries of sleep, yes, and the blackbird spread its tail, so that the sun may speckle, while it creaks hail.

That other one wanted to think his way to life, sure that the ultimate poem was the mind, or of the mind, or of the mind in these Elysia, these days, half earth, half mind; half sun, half thinking of the sun; half sky, half desire for indifference about the sky.

Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm; words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and fall and rise again. I am a poet, yes. Surely I am a great poet. Boats and youth passing and distant trees, the falling fountains of the pendant trees. I see it all. I feel it all. I am inspired. My eyes fill with tears. Yet even as I feel this. I lash my frenzy higher and higher. It foams. It becomes artificial, insincere. Words and words and words, how they gallop - how they lash their long manes and tails, but for some fault in me I cannot give myself to their backs; I cannot fly with them, scattering women and string bags. There is some flaw with me - some fatal hesitancy, which, if I pass it over, turns to foam and falsity. Yet it is incredible that I should not be a great poet.

To put it in a nutshell, he was afflicted with a love of literature. It was the fatal nature of this disease to substitute a phantom for reality.

Be good, be kind, be humane, and charitable; love your fellows; console the afflicted; pardon those who have done you wrong.

One should always help the weak, the destitute and the impoverished.

All the world seems in tune on a spring afternoon, when we're poisoning pigeons in the park. Every Sunday you'll see my sweetheart and me, as we poison the pigeons in the park.

All goodness is poison to thy stomach.

How could two people who were so in love not end up happily ever after? It had to work. Didn't it? reunited with fresh hopes, we'd share a few deliriously happy days together. Or sometimes even weeks.

So I stood up and did a handstand on my Guru's roof, to celebrate the notion of liberation. I felt the dusty tiles under my hands. I felt my own strength and balance. I felt the easy night breeze on the palms of my bare feet. This kind of thing -- a spontaneous handstand--isn't something a disembodied cool blue soul can do, but a human being can do it. We have hands; we can stand on them if we want to. That's our privilege. That's the joy of a mortal body. And that's why God needs us. Because God loves to feel things through our hands.

To my taste, the men in Rome are ridiculously, hurtfully, stupidly beautiful. More beautiful even than Roman women, to be honest. Italian men are beautiful in the same way as French women, which is to say-- no detail spared in the quest for perfection. They’re like show poodles. Sometimes they look so good I want to applaud.

With each reunion (we) had to learn each other all over again. There was always that nervous moment at the airport when I would stand there waiting for him to arrive, wondering, Will I still know him? Will he still know me?

Inability, human incapacity, is the only boundary to an art.

A clean hand wants no washing.

To wear one's heart upon one's sleeve.

I am so in love with you that there isnÂ’t anything else.

I was trying to learn to write, commencing with the simplest things, and one of the simplest things of all and the most fundamental is violent death.

Luck is a thing that comes in many forms and who can recognize her?