Discoveries Are Made By Gluttons

This Is No Book. Whoever Touches This Touches A Man.

See, They Return; Ah, See The Tentative Movements, And The Slow Feet, The Trouble In The Pace And The Uncertain Wavering! See, They Return, One, And By One, With Fear, As Half-awakened; As If The Snow Should Hesitate And Murmur In The Wind, And Half Turn Back.

The Primary Pigment Of Poetry Is The Image.

I Have Tried To Write Paradise Do Not Move Let The Wind Speak That Is Paradise. Let The Gods Forgive What I Have Made Let Those I Love Try To Forgive What I Have Made.

And The Good Writer Chooses His Words For Their 'meaning', But That Meaning Is Not A A Set, Cut-off Thing Like The Move Of Knight Or Pawn On A Chess-board. It Comes Up With Roots, With Associations, With How And Where The Word Is Familiarly Used, Or Where It Has Been Used Brilliantly Or Memorably.