The poet gives us his essence, but prose takes the mold of the body and mind.

O! Let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; keep me in temper; I would not be mad!

The human mind is our fundamental resource.

Poetry and lyrics are very similar. Making words bounce off a page.

No poet or orator has ever existed who believed there was any better than himself.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbl’d shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.

Every day we should hear at least one little song, read one good poem, see one exquisite picture, and, if possible, speak a few sensible words.

Everything that’s created comes out of silence. Your thoughts emerge from the nothingness of silence. Your words come out of this void. Your very essence emerged from emptiness. All creativity requires some stillness.

Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.

Just as our eyes need light in order to see, our minds need ideas in order to conceive.

It’s true that at the time I was fond of Kurt Vonnegut and Richard Brautigan, and it was from them that I learned about this kind of simple, swift-paced style, but the main reason for the style of my first novel is that I simply did not have the time to write sustained prose.

He ate and drank the precious Words, his Spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor, nor that his frame was Dust.

The empires of the future are the empires of the mind.

Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary.

The ‚soul‘ is one of the words you can use to talk about your innermost being, the essence of who you are.

For what Harley Street specialist has time to understand the body, let alone the mind or both in combination, when he is a slave to thirteen thousand a year?

Our soul is cast into a body, where it finds number, time, dimension. Thereupon it reasons, and calls this nature necessity, and can believe nothing else.

Death means change our clothes. Clothes become old, then time to come change. So this body become old, and then time come, take young body.

It is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one’s own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane.

Love is anterior to life, posterior to death, initial of creation, and the exponent of breath.

What inspires me about rap is that it’s written in an almost poetic way. I just think it’s so cool.

The union of the Word and the Mind produces that mystery which is called Life… Learn deeply of the Mind and its mystery, for therein lies the secret of immortality.

I write some country music. There’s a song called ‚I Hope You Dance.‘ Incredible. I was going to write that poem; somebody beat me to it.

Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.

The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head.

My brain and body and nervous system, they see a plane ride, a long plane trip, as an opportunity to sleep with nothing coming in, nothing to do. I just go offline the minute I’m on the plane.

Desire is the essence of a man.

But if nothing but soul, or in soul mind, is qualified to count, it is impossible for there to be time unless there is soul, but only that of which time is an attribute, i.e. if change can exist without soul.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.

Individual science fiction stories may seem as trivial as ever to the blinder critics and philosophers of today – but the core of science fiction, its essence has become crucial to our salvation if we are to be saved at all.

Where the Mind is biggest, the Heart, the Senses, Magnanimity, Charity, Tolerance, Kindliness, and the rest of them scarcely have room to breathe.

In my younger days, I was trying to write sophisticated prose and fantastic stories.

The natural flights of the human mind are not from pleasure to pleasure, but from hope to hope.

In all my work, in the movies I write, the lyrics, the poetry, the prose, the essays, I am saying that we may encounter many defeats – maybe it’s imperative that we encounter the defeats – but we are much stronger than we appear to be and maybe much better than we allow ourselves to be. Human beings are more alike than unalike.

In the television age, the key distinction is between the candidate who can speak poetry and the one who can only speak prose.

I am in the world feeling my way to light ‚amid the encircling gloom.‘

There’s no art to find the mind’s construction in the face.

As a body everyone is single, as a soul never.

Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes and prism, are all very good words for the lips.

Existence precedes and rules essence.

Still round the corner there may wait, A new road or a secret gate.

I’m happy to be a writer – of prose, poetry, every kind of writing. Every person in the world who isn’t a recluse, hermit or mute uses words. I know of no other art form that we always use.

Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds.

Once I planned to write a book of poems entirely about the things in my pocket. But I found it would be too long; and the age of the great epics is past.

Desire is the very essence of man.

Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.

Hallow the body as a temple to comeliness and sanctify the heart as a sacrifice to love; love recompenses the adorers.

True wealth is not of the pocket, but of the heart and of the mind.

Personality is everything in art and poetry.

What the mind doesn’t understand, it worships or fears.

The first man to compare the cheeks of a young woman to a rose was obviously a poet; the first to repeat it was possibly an idiot.

A beautiful body perishes, but a work of art dies not.

The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.

If I’m the people’s poet, then I ought to be in people’s hands – and, I hope, in their heart.

The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, and wretches hang that jurymen may dine.

Death is a release from the impressions of the senses, and from desires that make us their puppets, and from the vagaries of the mind, and from the hard service of the flesh.

Age wrinkles the body. Quitting wrinkles the soul.

All I wanted to do was write – at the time, poems, and prose, too. I guess my ambition was simply to make money however I could to keep myself going in some modest way, and I didn’t need much, I was unmarried at the time, no children.

There are no limitations to the mind except those we acknowledge.

On the subject of literary genres, I’ve always felt that my response to poetry is inadequate. I’d love to be the kind of person that drifts off into the garden with a slim volume of Elizabethan verse or a sheaf of haikus, but my passion is story.

A poet can survive everything but a misprint.