Music is love in search of a word.
If you want to be found stand where the seeker seeks.
At college I’d seen my dead frog’s limbs twitch under some applied stimulus or other – seen, but hadn’t believed. Didn’t dream of thinking beyond or around what I saw.
So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.
And as pale sickness does invade, Your frailer part, the breaches made, In that fair lodging still more clear, Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.
Always carry a corkscrew and the wine shall provide itself.
The simplest science book is over my head.
The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
Whether you listen to a piece of music, or a poem, or look at a picture or a jug, or a piece of sculpture, what matters about it is not what it has in common with others of its kind, but what is singularly its own.
But those two plays left me on fresh terms with language. I didn’t always have to speak in my own voice.