Only write to me, write to me, I love to see the hop and skip and sudden starts of your ink.

Mine the long night The secret place Where lovers meet In long embrace In purple dark In silvered kiss Forget the world And grasp your bliss

I worry about anthropomorphism as a form of self-deception. (The Christian religion is an anthropomorphic account of the universe.)

A surprising number of people - including many students of literature - will tell you they haven't really lived in a book since they were children.

Coherence and closure are deep human desires that are presently unfashionable. But they are always both frightening and enchantingly desirable. "Falling in love," characteristically, combs the appearances of the word, and of the particular lover's history, out of a random tangle and into a coherent plot.

History, writing, infect after a time a man's sense of himself.

I do not want to be a relative and passive being, anywhere. I want to live and love and write.