There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired.

Tired, tired with nothing, tired with everything, tired with the world’s weight he had never chosen to bear.

For awhile after you quit Keats all other poetry seems to be only whistling or humming.

Only remember west of the Mississippi it's a little more look, see, act. A little less rationalize, comment, talk.

Always willing to lend a helping hand to the one above him.

It is in the thirties that we want friends. In the forties we know they won't save us any more than love did.