One might have thought of sight, but who could think Of what it sees, for all the ill it sees? Speech found the ear, for all the evil sound, But the dark italics it could not propound. And out of what sees and hears and out Of what one feels, who could have thought to make So many selves, so many sensuous worlds, As if the air, the mid-day air, was swarming With the metaphysical changes that occur, Merely in living as and where we live.

If some really acute observer made as much of egotism as Freud has made of sex, people would forget a good deal about sex and find the explanation for everythi…

I am the angel of reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.

Everything is complicated; if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.

We won't be deceived by words such as Indispensable, Unique, and Great. Someone else indispensable and unique and great can always be found at a moment's notic…

Everything (he kept saying) is something it isn't. And everybody is always somewhere else.

The image of ourselves in the minds of others is the picture of a stranger we shall never see.