Poets arguing about modern poetry: jackals snarling over a dried-up well.

Like the bee its sting, the promiscuous leave behind them in each encounter something of themselves by which they are made to suffer.

Everything is a dangerous drug except reality, which is unendurable.

In my religion there would be no exclusive doctrine; all would be love, poetry and doubt.

There are many who dare not kill themselves for fear of what the neighbors will say.

We are all serving a life-sentence in the dungeon of self.

If our elaborate and dominating bodies are given us to be denied at every turn, if our nature is always wrong and wicked, how ineffectual we are-like fishes not meant to swim.

Slums may well be breeding-grounds of crime, but middle-class suburbs are incubators of apathy and delirium.

When even despair ceases to serve any creative purpose, then surely we are justified in suicide.

No one can achieve Serenity until the glare of passion is past the meridian.