Everything in the world exists to end up in a book.
Verse is everywhere in language where there is rhythm, everywhere, except in notices and on page four of the papers. In the genre called prose, there are verses [...] of all rhythms. But in truth there is no prose: there is the alphabet, and then verses more or less tight, more or less diffuse.
The poet Mallarmé listened to the painter Degas complaining about his inability to write poems even though he was full of ideas. My dear Degas, Mallarmé responded, poems are not made out of ideas. They're made out of words.