Reality is far more complex and messy than many of the grander themes and explanations would have us believe.
The cleverer I am at miniaturizing the world, the better I possess it.
Love is never finished expressing itself, and it expresses itself better the more poetically it is dreamed.
The reverie we intend to study is poetic reverie. This is a reverie which poetry puts on the right track, the track an expanding consciousness follows. This reverie is written, or, at least, promises to be written. It is already facing the great universe of the blank page. Then images begin to compose and fall into place.
The human being taken in his profound reality as well as in his great tension of becoming is a divided being, a being which divides again, having permitted himself the illusion of unity for barely an instant. He divides and then reunites.
Childhood lasts all through life. It returns to animate broad sections of adult life. . . . Poets will help us to find this living childhood within us, this permanent, durable immobile world.
A word is a bud attempting to become a twig. How can one not dream while writing? It is the pen which dreams. The blank page gives the right to dream.
We insist, it seems, on living.
Sanity can take one of only two forms: that of ignorance, or denial.
There's power in the truth, just like there's power in making the right choice
So for Bullitt, I just put my black hat back on.