Only when one is connected to one's own core is one connected to others, I am beginning to discover. And, for me, the core, the inner spring, can best be refound through solitude.

My father taught me that a bill is like a crying baby and has to be attended to at once.

Nothing feeds the center of being so much as creative work.

What a commentary on our civilization, when being alone is considered suspect; when one has to apologize for it, make excuses, hide the fact that one practices it—like a secret vice!

Grief can't be shared. Everyone carries it alone. His own burden in his own way.

When I cannot write a poem, I bake biscuits and feel just as pleased.

I believe that what woman resents is not so much giving herself in pieces as giving herself purposelessly.