There was an ocean above us, held in by a thin sac that might rupture and let down a flood at any second.

The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow liked the month of September. Shelley flourished in the hot months. Some poets, like Wordsworth, have gone outdoors to work. Others, like Auden, keep to the curtained room. Schiller needed the smell of rotten apples about him to make a poem. Tennyson and Walter de la Mare had to smoke. Auden drinks lots of tea, Spender coffee; Hart Crane drank alcohol. Pope, Byron, and William Morris were creative late at night. And so it goes.

Doubt: How can I know? Truth: How can you not?

Do you want a good advice on your path? Here it is: Don__ be sure of your path! Don__ ever be sure of it! Do you want more advice? Here it is: Doubt your path! And examine the other paths, know the other paths!

There is no failure in life, there are only those who don`t know how to succeed.

Who knows doesn__ know what the other person knows of them. Have confidence in you.