There would still remain the never-resting mind,So that one would want to escape, come backTo what had been so long composed.The imperfect is our paradise.Note that, in this bitterness, delight,Since the imperfect is so hot in us,Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.

Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.

Reality is not what it is. It consists of the many realities which it can be made into.

The physical world is meaningless tonight And there is no other.

Metaphor creates a new reality from which the original appears to be unreal.

Realism is a corruption of reality.

It is the imagination pressing back against the pressure of reality. It seems, in the last analysis, to have something to do with our self-preservation; and that, no doubt, is why the expression of it, the sound of its words, helps us to live our lives.