It Is As Unseeing To Ask What

Hot Water Is My Native Element. I Was In It As A Baby, And I Have Never Seemed To Get Out Of It Ever Since.

I May Say That I Think Greed About Poetry Is The Only Permissible Greed - It Is, Indeed, Unavoidable.

Art Is Magic, Not Logic. This Craze For The Logical Spirit In Irrational Shape Is Part Of The Present Harmful Mania For Uniformity.

There Is No Truth. Only Points Of View.

The Last Faint Spark In The Self-murdered Heart, The Wounds Of The Sad Uncomprehending Dark, The Wounds Of The Baited Bear,-- The Blind And Weeping Bear Whom The Keepers Beat On His Helpless Flesh . . . The Tears Of The Hunted Hare.