The Machine Yes The Machine

Poetry Is The Synthesis Of Hyacinths And Biscuits.

Slang Is A Language That Rolls Up Its Sleeves, Spits On Its Hands And Goes To Work.

Men Of Ideas Vanish When Freedom Vanishes.

I Stayed Away From Mathematics Not So Much Because I Knew It Would Be Hard Work As Because Of The Amount Of Time I Knew It Would Take, Hours Spent In A Field Where I Was Not A Natural.

It Is Necessary Now And Then For A Man To Go Away By Himself And Experience Loneliness; To Sit On A Rock In The Forest And To Ask Of Himself, 'who Am I, And Where Have I Been, And Where Am I Going?'...if One Is Not Careful, One Allows Diversions To Take Up One's Time-the Stuff Of Life