Running in the wind, in the pollen and dust, a flower in flight
And speaking of this wonderful machine:[840] I’m puzzled by the difference betweenTwo methods of composing: , the kind Which goes on solely in the poet’s mind,A testing of performing words, while heIs...
The best part of a writer's biography is not the record of his adventures but the story of his style. [Vogue, interview, 1969]
In a nervous and slender-leaved mimosa grove at the back of their villa we found a perch on the ruins of a low stone wall. She trembled and twitched as I kissed the corner of her parted lips and the h...
[D]avid began to argue, with the whining intonations of German astonishment, [...] that everyone did it.
For some reason, I kept seeing it—it trembled and silkily glowed on my damp retina—a radiant child of twelve, sitting on a threshold, pinging pebbles at an empty can.
The breaking of a wave cannot explain the whole sea.
I think she always nursed a small mad hope.
I clearly understand, first, that the real human being is a poet and, second, that [the tyrant] is the incarnate negation of a poet.
The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible
No free man needs a God; but was I free?
I had possessed her - and she never knew it.
He approaches a cockroach in only one respect: his coloration is brown. That is all. Apart from this he has a tremendous convex belly divided into segments and a hard rounded back suggestive of wing c...
Your voice, through the beelike hum, was remote and anxious. It kept sliding into the distance and vanishing. I spoke to you with tightly shut eyes, and felt like crying. My love for you was the throb...
I appeal to parents: never, never say, Hurry up, to a child. (62)
Doom is nigh. I am in acute distress, desperately trying to coax sleep, opening my eyes every few seconds to check their faded gleam, and imagining paradise as a place where a sleepless neighbor reads...
[...] and I switched to English literature, where so many frustrated poets end as pipe-smoking teachers in tweeds.
The distinct feature of everything extant is its monotony.
Ink, a Drug.
The day, like the previous days, dragged sluggishly by in a kind of insipid idleness, devoid even of that dreamy expectancy which can make idleness so enchanting.