“The sort of poetry I seek resides in objects man can't touch.”
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One is certain of nothing but the truth of one's own emotions.
We are willing enough to praise freedom when she is safely tucked away in the past and cannot be a nuisance. In the present, amidst dangers whose outcome we cannot foresee, we get nervous about her, and admit censorship.
What is wonderful about great literature is that it transforms the man who reads it towards the condition of the man who wrote.
Faith, to my mind, is a stiffening process, a sort of mental starch.
