It is necessary now and then for a man to go away by himself and experience loneliness; to sit on a rock in the forest and to ask of himself, 'Who am I, and where have I been, and where am I going?'...If one is not careful, one allows diversions to take up one's time-the stuff of life

I'm an idealist. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way.

The drum in a dream pounds loud to the dreamer.

The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.

The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to.

Poetry is a slipknot tightened around a time-beat of one thought, two thoughts, and a last interweaving thought there is not yet a number for.

Ordering a man to write a poem is like commanding a pregnant woman to give birth to a red-headed child.