“People to whom nothing has ever happened cannot understand the unimportance of events.”

If you aren’t in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?

I can connect Nothing with nothing

For you know only a heap of broken images

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, and I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, and in short, I was afraid.

The very existence of libraries affords the best evidence that we may yet have hope for the future of man

I am moved by fancies that are curled, around these images and cling, the notion of some infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing.

The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.

This love is silent.

April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.

We had the experience but missed the meaning. And approach to the meaning restores the experience in a different form.

For I have known them all already, known them all—Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.

Of lovers whose bodies smell of each other Who think the same thoughts without need of speech

I should have been a pair of ragged claws/ Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time.

So I find words I never thought to speak In streets I never thought I should revisit When I left my body on a distant shore.