“I am a butterfly poetbirthed from painflying with the freedomof my verses.”

“Describe plum-blossoms?Better than my verses...whiteWordless Butterflies”

“Once upon a time, I dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was myself. Soon I awaked, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man.”

“Although I am capable, through long dabbling in blue magic, of imitating any prose in the world (but singularly enough not verse—I am a miserable rhymester), I do not consider myself a true artist, save in one matter: I can do what only a true artist can do—pounce upon the forgotten butterfly of revelation, wean myself abruptly from the habit of things, see the web of the world, and the warp and the weft of that web.”

“Nevertheless, I am versed in the use of two weapons: saber and cannon — and, perhaps, one other . . .”

“Just when the caterpillar thought “I am incapable of moving,” it became a butterfly.”