“There are exotic species of words jumping out inviting me to play. I weave them into a theme, a garland of words.”

“Words. Words. I play with words, hoping that some combination, even a chance combination, will say what I want.”

“On the pavement
of my trampled soul
the steps of madmen
weave the prints of rude crude words.”

“Gravity is not a version of the truth. It is the truth. Anybody who doubts it is invited to jump out of a tenth-floor window.”

“Good wits jump; 45 a word to the wise is enough.”

“I hate this play and every word in it.”

“The last sort I shall mention are verbal critics — mere word-catchers, fellows that pick out a word in a sentence and a sentence in a volume, and tell you it is wrong. The title of Ultra-Crepidarian critics has been given to a variety of this species.”

“And what is wrong with playing with words? Words love to be played with, just like children or kittens do!”

“A sentence always means more. Even a single word, within the weave of incommensurable connotation, can, and usually does.”

“But what I really want is to just swim around in a warm baby pool of these friends, jump in their dry leaf pile-to rub them all over myself, without words and clothes.”