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

You doubt God? Well more to the point I credit God with the good sense to doubt me. What is mortality after all but divine doubt flashing over us? For an instant God suspends assent and poof! we disappear.

To live past the end of your myth is a perilous thing.

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

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?

Time isn't made of anything. It is an abstraction. Just a meaning that we impose upon motion.

You remember too much," my mother said to me recently. "Why hold onto all that?" And I said, "where can I put it down?