As things are, and as fundamentally they must always be, poetry is not a career, but a mug’s game. No honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: He may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.
A toothache, or a violent passion, is not necessarily diminished by our knowledge of its causes, its character, its importance or insignificance.
The soul is so far from being a monad that we have not only to interpret other souls to ourself but to interpret ourself to ourself.
Moving between the legs of tables and of chairs, rising or falling, grasping at kisses and toys, advancing boldly, sudden to take alarm, retreating to the corner of arm and knee, eager to be reassured, taking pleasure in the fragrant brilliance of the Christmas tree.
People to whom nothing has ever happened cannot understand the unimportance of events.
There is not a more repulsive spectacle than on old man who will not forsake the world, which has already forsaken him.
There is no absolute point of view from which real and ideal can be finally separated and labelled.
If you desire to drain to the dregs the fullest cup of scorn and hatred that a fellow human being can pour out for you, let a young mother hear you call dear baby ‘it.’
The tiger springs in the new year. Us he devours.
You are the music while the music lasts.