Oh, to awake from dreaming!

For this moment, this one moment, we are together. I press you to me. Come, pain, feed on me. Bury your fangs in my flesh. Tear me asunder. I sob, I sob.

I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.

And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.

When I cannot see words curling like rings of smoke round me I am in darkness—I am nothing.

Like" and "like" and "like"--but what is the thing that lies beneath the semblance of the thing?

The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely imaging.

But I pine in Solitude. Solitude is my undoing.

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

When I am grown up I shall carry a notebook—a fat book with many pages, methodically lettered. I shall enter my phrases.

Death is woven in with the violets, ” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)

We can find a latent energy inside us

It’s a lot harder to pull your head up and ask why.

Worry is like racing the engine of an automobile without letting in the clutch.

Where in this small-talking world can I find A longitude with no platitude?

I think President Obama is going to be a one-term president.

The profession of the writer has its thorns about which the reader does not dream.

I believe it's easy to serve God if we learn to hear from Him before we struggle to do things for Him that He never asked us to do.

Self criticism must be my guide to action, and the first rule for its employment is that in itself it is not a virtue, only a procedure.

Every now and then, a presidential candidate surprises us with a truly human and honest moment.

Are not all things which have opposites generated out of their opposites?