We are beginning to wonder whether a servant girl hasn’t the best of it after all. She knows how the salad tastes without the dressing, and she knows how life’s lived before it gets...
We are adhering to life now with our last muscle – the heart.
New York is the meeting place of the peoples, the only city where you can hardly find a typical American.
Dreams have only the pigmentation of fact.
An image is a stop the mind makes between uncertainties.
After all, it is not where one washes one’s neck that counts but where one moistens one’s throat.
This head has risen above its hair in a moment of abandon known only to men who have drawn their feet out of their boots to walk awhile in the corridors of the mind.
The night is a skin pulled over the head of day that the day may be in torment.
What is a ruin but time easing itself of endurance?