How Flat All Sounds Are At The

Enormous Morning, Ponderous, Meticulous; Gray Light Streaking Each Bare Branch, Each Single Twig, Along One Side, Making Another Tree, Of Glassy Veins.

In My Books You Have To Concentrate, But I Work Hard To Make It That, When You Do, The Rewards Are Quite High.

All A Work Of Art Can Do Is Present The Surface. I Can't Know The Insides Of People. I Know Very Little About The Inside Of Myself.

Poetry Is That Magic Which Consists In Awakening Sensations With The Help Of A Combination Of Sounds ... That Sorcery By Which Ideas Are Necessarily Communicated To Us, In A Definite Way, By Words Which Nevertheless Do Not Express Them.

I Dont Know If There Is A Personal Identity. We All Imagine That We Are Absolute Individuals. But When We Begin To Look For Where This Individuality Resides, Its Very Difficult To Find.