Oh! To Be A Butterfly Still, Upon

This Is America, This Vast, Confused Beauty, This Staring, Restless Speed Of Loveliness, Mighty, Overwhelming, Crude, Of All Forms, Making Grandeur Out Of Profusion, Afraid Of No Incongruities, Sublime In Its Audacity, Bizarre Breaker Of Moulds.

Don’t Ask A Writer What He’s Working On. It’s Like Asking Someone With Cancer On The Progress Of His Disease.

Art Is Like Politics. Any Theory Carried Too Far Ends In Sterility, And Freshness Is Only Gained By Following Some Other Line.

I Do Not Suppose That Anyone Not A Poet Can Realize The Agony Of Creating A Poem. Every Nerve, Even Every Muscle, Seems Strained To The Breaking Point. The Poem Will Not Be Denied; To Refuse To Write It Would Be A Greater Torture. It Tears Its Way Out Of The Brain, Splintering And Breaking Its Passage, And Leaves That Organ In The State Of A Jelly-fish When The Task Is Done.

Happiness, To Some, Elation; Is, To Others, Mere Stagnation.