If You Tell A Novelist,

It Becomes Still More Difficult To Find
words At Once True And Kind,
or Not Untrue And Not Unkind.

I Listen To Money Singing, It's Like Looking Down From Long French Windows At A Provincial Town. The Slums, The Canal, The Churches Ornate And Mad In The Evening Sun. It Is Intensely Sad.

Death: The Anaesthetic From Which None Come Round.

I'd Like To Think...that People In Pubs Would Talk About My Poems

Life And Literature Is A Question Of What One Thrills To, And Further Than That No Man Shall Ever Go Without Putting His Foot In A Turd.