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Perhaps it's good you're not going to write anymore: you'd have to start considering all those dull things like your relation to your audience, the relation between your personality and your poetry, the relation between your poetry and all the poetry before it.

In myths things always turn into their opposites as one version supersedes the next.

“All life is a rhythm,” she said as I sat up. “All death is rhythm suspended, a syncopation before life resumes.”

Dull grown-ups and bright children form a particularly tolerant friendship.

Oh, for the rebirth of an educational system where understanding was an essential part of knowledge.

You can be bored with anything if you try hard enough.

Difference is the foundation of those buildings, the pilings beneath the docks, tangled in the roots of the trees. Half the place was built on it. The other half couldn’t live without it. But to talk about it in public reveals you to be ill-mannered and vulgar.

“The aristocracy,” she repeated. “At its worst, a sargasso of every conceivable neurosis society may have; by naming itself it has agreed to its own death. But at least it has had the dignity to applaud its own order of execution in the past if the document is eloquent.”

The army is just too easy and too simple: fight to the death for the cause is just.

Imagination should be used for something other than pondering murder, don’t you think?

I was thinking about what I said to you about customs and morals keeping people apart, making them different from one another. People are so much more alike than different. So much more.

I saw a bunch of the weirdest, oddest people I have ever met in my life, who thought different, and acted different, and even made love different. And they made me laugh, and get angry, and be happy, and be sad, and excited, and even fall in love a little....And they didn’t seem to be so weird or strange anymore.