Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.

I never had much education in English poetry as such.

Lava bread makes you passionate.

He came after Homer and before Gertrude Stein, a difficult interval for a poet.

Each night about this time he puts on sadness like a garment and goes on writing.

A man moves through time. It means nothing except that, like a harpoon, once thrown he will arrive.

I do think that something of the effect I have on people is to put everything on an edge where they're both infatuated with a kind of charmingness happening in the person or in the writing, and also flatly terrified by a revelation or acceptance of revelation that's almost happening, never quite totally happening.