“Who readsIncessantly, and to his reading brings notA spirit and judgment equal or superior,(And what he brings what needs he elsewhere seek?)Uncertain and unsettled still remains,Deep versed in books, and shallow in himself.”

“He ate and drank the precious words,His spirit grew robust;He knew no more that he was poor,Nor that his frame was dust.He danced along the dingy days,And this bequest of wingsWas but a book. What libertyA loosened spirit brings!”

“Hamlet promised himself he’d throw down afterward, but I think perhaps when he said, “From this time forth, my thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!” the limits of blank verse weakened his resolve somehow. If he’d been free to follow the dictates of his conscience rather than the pen of Shakespeare, perhaps he would have abandoned verse altogether, like me, and contented himself with this instead: “Bring it, muthafuckas. Bring it.”

“What the superior man seeks is in himself; what the small man seeks is in others.”

“What broke in a man when he could bring himself to kill another? What broke when he could bring himself to thrust down the knife into the warm flesh, to bring down the axe on the living head, to cleave down between the seeing eyes, to shoot the gun that would drive death into the beating heart?”

“She was spirit and presence, as rare and brilliant as snowflakes in sunlight, and he could not bring himself to harm her.”