Poetry Is What Happens When An Anxiety

I Don’t Believe One Reads To Escape Reality. A Person Reads To Confirm A Reality He Knows Is There, But Which He Has Not Experienced.

Perhaps Our Only Sickness Is To Desire A Truth Which We Cannot Bear Rather Than To Rest Content With The Fictions We Manufacture Out Of Each Other.

History Is An Endless Repetition Of The Wrong Way Of Living.

To Be The Equal Of Reality You Must Learn How To Ignore It Without Danger.

We Are The Children Of Our Landscape; It Dictates Behavior And Even Thought In The Measure To Which We Are Responsive To It.