To say a poem is absolute is saying nothing, because an ink blot can be absolute. Yet you put into it what you like. So it becomes totally relative.

Everything is relative except for the absolute.

Not only the style, but the way in which you don't exactly know what on earth has happened or is happening till about page two hundred - then it all becomes apparent in a blinding flash.

There is curiously little art concerning the efficacy of reason - perhaps simply because reason is not noticeably efficacious.

The word love has always tasted like the scent of fresh ink and soft paper to me. Like a newly written poem.

Everything is relative except relatives, and they are absolute.