All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-bui...
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Words are the clothes thoughts wear.
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There is no use indicting words, they are no shoddier than what they peddle.
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I'm all these words, all these strangers, this dust of words, with no ground for their settling, no sky for their dispersing, coming together to say, ...
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I don’t know: perhaps it’s a dream, all a dream. (That would surprise me.) I’ll wake, in the silence, and never sleep again. (It will be I?) Or dream ...
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But he had turned, little by little, a disturbance into words, he had made a pillow of old words, for his head.
