Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm; words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and falls again. I am a poet, yes. Surely I am a great poet.

Comments and Image

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

Comments and Image

I need silence, and to be alone and to go out, and to save one hour to consider what has happened to my world, what death has done to my world.

Comments and Image

Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is despatched�love for instance � we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next.

Comments and Image

I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.

Comments and Image

Alone, I often fall down into nothingness. I must push my foot stealthily lest I should fall off the edge of the world into nothingness. I have to bang my head against some hard door to call myself back to the body.

Comments and Image

How much better is silence; the coffee cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here for ever with bare things, this coffee cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself.

Comments and Image