An atom tossed in a chaos made Of yeasting worlds, which bubble and foam. Whence have I come? What would be home? I hear no answer. I am afraid!

Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.

Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.

You are beautiful and faded Like an old opera tune Played upon a harpsichord.

This is America, This vast, confused beauty, This staring, restless speed of loveliness, Mighty, overwhelming, crude, of all forms, Making grandeur out of profusion, Afraid of no incongruities, Sublime in its audacity, Bizarre breaker of moulds.

All books are either dreams or swords.

The city is squalid and sinister, With the silver-barred street in the midst, Slow-moving, A river leading nowhere.

I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.

An atom tossed in a chaos made Of yeasting worlds, which bubble and foam. Whence have I come? What would be home? I hear no answer. I am afraid!

Do we want laurels for ourselves most, Or most that no one else shall have any?