Though They May Not Always Be Handsome

There Is A Close Relationship Between Flowers And Convicts. The Fragility And Delicacy Of The Former Are Of The Same Nature As The Brutal Insensitivity Of The Latter.

There Are Mornings When All Men Experience With Fatigue A Flush Of Tenderness That Makes Them Horny.

They Remain Dead, The People I Try To Resuscitate By Straining To Hear What They Say. But The Illusion Is Not Pointless, Or Not Quite, Even If The Reader Knows All This Better Than I Do. One Thing A Book Tries To Do, Beneath The Disguise Of Words And Causes And Clothes And Grief, Is Show The Skeleton And The Skeleton Dust To Come. The Author Too, Like Those Of Whom He Speaks, Is Dead.

...beauty Is The Projection Of Ugliness And By Developing Certain Monstrosities We Obtain The Purest Ornaments.

Poetry Is The Break (or Rather The Meeting At The Breaking Point) Between The Visible And The Invisible.