It is a mystery, and to tell the truth, I am intrigued by mysteries even if this is to be my last week of enjoying them. I would welcome some glimmer of understanding but, failing that, working on the puzzle will suffice.

Poets are the mad midwives to reality. They see not what is, nor what can be, but what must become.

There arises from a bad and unapt formation of words a wonderful obstruction to the mind.

I love being a writer. It's the paperwork I can't stand.

Words are the supreme objects. They are minded things.

At the utmost, the active-minded young man should ask of his teacher only mastery of his tools. The young man himself, the subject of education, is a certain form of energy; the object to be gained is economy of his force; the training is partly the clearing away of obstacles, partly the direct application of effort. Once acquired, the tools and models may be thrown away.

There is a mystery, or there is a Way -- either is wonderful.

The poet must put on the passion he wants to represent.

A question mark connects one thing to many things.

Where shall we begin? There is no beginning. Start where you arrive. Stop before what entices you. And work! You will enter little by little into the entirety. Method will be born in proportion to your interest.