To be precise and reckless: that is the consummation devoutly to be wished.

I want a fever, in poetry: a fever, and tranquillity.

You are bound, my hunch is, to make it just fine.

To say that its wrong to feel this way is not the point; you do feel it. All you see is a flash of fire and, depending on your altitude, you don't even see that sometimes.

Detachment produces a peculiar state of mind. Maybe that's the worst sentence of all, to be deprived of feeling what a human being ought to be entitled to feel.

The women of the South have brought into American literature a unique mixture of domesticity and grotesquerie.