The Rats Are Underneath The

He Had A Mind So Fine That No Idea Could Violate It

History May Be Servitude. History May Be Freedom. See, Now They Vanish. The Faces And Places, With The Self Which, As It Could, Loved Them, To Become Renewed, Transfigured, In Another Pattern.

There Is No Escape From Metre; There Is Only Mastery.

He Laughed Like An Irresponsible Foetus.

There Is No Absolute Point Of View From Which Real And Ideal Can Be Finally Separated And Labelled.