A trite word is an overused word which has lost its identity like an old coat in a second-hand shop. The familiar grows dull and we no longer see, hear, or taste it.

In every relationship, sooner or later, there is a court scene. Accusations, counter-accusations, a trial, a verdict.

All of my creation is an effort to weave a web of connection with the world: I am always weaving it because it was once broken.

I don't wish power, only art -art and passion.

What can I do with my happiness? How can I keep it, conceal it, bury it where I may never lose it? I want to kneel as it falls over me like rain, gather it up with lace and silk, and press it over myself again.

Strange, isn't it, that no chemical will give a human being the iridescence that illusions have given them? Give me your hat.

To write at the same temperature at which I live I should write nothing but poetry.