Up goes the rocket. Its golden grain falls, fertilising, upon the rich soil of my imagination.

For this moment, this one moment, we are together. I press you to me. Come, pain, feed on me. Bury your fangs in my flesh. Tear me asunder. I sob, I sob.

I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.

And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.

When I cannot see words curling like rings of smoke round me I am in darkness—I am nothing.

Like" and "like" and "like"--but what is the thing that lies beneath the semblance of the thing?

The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely imaging.

But I pine in Solitude. Solitude is my undoing.

I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.

When I am grown up I shall carry a notebook—a fat book with many pages, methodically lettered. I shall enter my phrases.

Death is woven in with the violets, ” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)

To us, they are not so much who they are as who they will become.

The world is full of opinions. But I am not searching for opinions, I'm searching for truths.

From the landscape: a sense of scale. From the dead: a sense of scale.

Credit is money of the mind.

Work needs to be the single biggest requirements. No more waivers as this administration has done. There should be real work eligibility.

The thought is not the thing.

Nothing about my life or my career has been linear.

You flip through it and say, 'I'd like to have that product and I'd like to have a person like that. It is You placing your order with the Universe. It's really that easy.

All is measured by that relative term, quality. It is in this search for quality that the artist is, of necessity, the eternal student.

I keep telling myself, don't get cocky. Give your services to the press and the media, be nice to the kids, throw a baseball into the stands once in a while.