I'm a holy man minus the holiness. Hand that on to your three spies, and tell them to put it in their pipes. - E. M. Forster

A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself.

When love flies it is remembered not as love but as something else. Blessed are the uneducated, who forget it entirely, and are never conscious of folly or pruriency in the past, of long aimless conversations.

He longed for smut, but heard little and contributed less, and his chief indecencies were solitary.