Mariner, do not ask whose tomb this may be, but go with good fortune: I wish you a kinder sea.
It is through the intentionality of poetic imagination that the poet's soul discovers the opening of consciousness common to all true poetry.
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.
A word to the wise to all the children of the twentieth century, whether their concern be pediatrics or geriatrics, whether they crawl on hands and knees and wear diapers or walk with a cane and comb their beards. There's a wondrous magic to Christmas, and there's a special power reserved for little people. In short, there's nothing mightier than the meek, and a merry Christmas to each and all.
The computer dictates how you do something, whereas with a pencil you're totally free.
Slump, and the world slumps with you. Push, and you push alone.
You can know who a person is simply by staring into their eyes.