I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.

These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night

THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—

Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…

According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field

Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of

You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich

Why pretend to remember the weather two years back? Why not? Listen close then repeat after others what they have just said and win a reputation for vivacity. Oh feed upon petals o...

unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line

The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!

My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together