The weight of the world is on our shoulders, its vision is through our eyes; if we blink or look aside, or turn back to finger what Plato said or remember Napoleon and his conquests, we inflict on the world the injury of some obliquity. This is life...

Comments and Image

Our friends - how distant, how mute, how seldom visited and little known. And I, too, am dim to my friends and unknown; a phantom, sometimes seen, often not. Life is a dream surely.

Comments and Image

I do not want to be admired. I want to give, to be given, and solitude in which to unfold my possessions.

Comments and Image

That would be a glorious life, to addict oneself to perfection; to follow the curve of the sentence wherever it might lead, into deserts, under drifts of sand, regardless of lures, of seductions; to be poor always and unkempt; to be ridiculous in Piccadilly.

Comments and Image

Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm; words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and falls again. I am a poet, yes. Surely I am a great poet.

Comments and Image

I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.

Comments and Image

I need silence, and to be alone and to go out, and to save one hour to consider what has happened to my world, what death has done to my world.

Comments and Image

Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is despatched�love for instance � we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next.

Comments and Image

I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.

Comments and Image

Alone, I often fall down into nothingness. I must push my foot stealthily lest I should fall off the edge of the world into nothingness. I have to bang my head against some hard door to call myself back to the body.

Comments and Image