Insomnia" Perhaps She's A Daytime Sleeper.

If After I Read A Poem The World Looks Like That Poem For 24 Hours Or So I'm Sure It's A Good One—and The Same Goes For Paintings.

What One Seems To Want In Art, In Experiencing It, Is The Same Thing That Is Necessary For Its Creation, A Self-forgetful, Perfectly Useless Concentration.

It Was Cold And Windy, Scarcely The Day To Take A Walk On That Long Beach Everything Was Withdrawn As Far As Possible, Indrawn: The Tide Far Out, The Ocean Shrunken, Seabirds In Ones Or Twos. The Rackety, Icy, Offshore Wind Numbed Our Faces On One Side; Disrupted The Formation Of A Lone Flight Of Canada Geese; And Blew Back The Low, Inaudible Rollers In Upright, Steely Mist.

The Whole Shadow Of Man Is Only As Big As His Hat.

The Art Of Losing Isn't Hard To Master.