Here we go mother on the shipless ocean. Pity us, pity the ocean, here we go.

All myth is an enriched pattern, a two-faced proposition, allowing its operator to say one thing and mean another, to lead a double life. Hence the notion found early in ancient thought that all poets are liars. And from the true lies of poetry trickled out a question. What really connects words and things?

Love is a good place to situate our distrust of fake women.

Philosophy - hopeless. Yet it gives me hope.

Desire doubled is love and love doubled is madness.

Making is always a slightly hopeful thing because once you've made something, it'll - the world will be different.

Prowling the meanings of a word, prowling the history of a person, no use expecting a flood of light. Human words have no main switch. But all those little kidnaps in the dark. And then the luminous, big, shivering, discandied, unrepentant, barking web of them that hangs in your mind when you turn back to the page you were trying to translate.