Moving between the legs of tables and of chairs, rising or falling, grasping at kisses and toys, advancing boldly, sudden to take alarm, retreating to the corner of arm and knee, eager to be reassured, taking pleasure in the fragrant brilliance of the Christmas tree.
It’s strange that words are so inadequate. Yet, like the asthmatic struggling for breath, so the lover must struggle for words.
It may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves, and an evasion of the visible and sensible world.
In a play from the beginning you have to realize that you’re preparing something which is going into the hands of other people, unknown at the time you’re writing it.
Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different.
If you haven’t the strength to impose your own terms upon life, you must accept the terms it offers you.
I am moved by fancies that are curled around these images, and cling: The notion of some infinitely gentle Infinitely suffering thing.