One Must Be Ruthless With

I Didn't Want To Be Like Yeats; I Wanted To Be Yeats.

We Are Using Our Own Skins For Wallpaper And We Cannot Win.

Life, Friends, Is Boring. We Must Not Say So. After All, The Sky Flashes, The Great Sea Yearns, We Ourselves Flash And Yearn, And Moreover My Mother Told Me As A Boy (repeatedly) 'ever To Confess You're Bored Means You Have No Inner Resources.' I Conclude Now I Have No Inner Resources, Because I Am Heavy Bored.

I Think That What Happens In My Poetic Work In The Future Will Depend On My Being Knocked In The Face, And Thrown Flat, And Given Cancer, And All Kinds Of Other Things Short Of Senile Dementia.

I Am So Wise I Had My Mouth Sewn Shut.