His books were part of him. Each year of his life, it seemed, his books became more and more a part of him. This room, thirty by twenty feet, and the walls of shelves filled with books, had for him the murmuring of many voices. In the books of Herodotus, Tacitus, Rabelais, Thomas Browne, John Milton, and scores of others, he had found men of face and voice more real to him than many a man he had met for a smoke and a talk.

I have always felt that a woman has the right to treat the subject of her age with ambiguity until, perhaps, she passes into the realm of over ninety. Then it is better she be candid with herself and with the world.

Somebody's little girl- how easy it is to make a sob story over who she once was and who she now is.

When I was writing pretty poor poetry, this girl with midnight black hair told me to go on.

The machine yes the machine never wastes anybody's time never watches the foreman never talks back.

I make it clear why I write as I do and why other poets write as they do. After hundreds of experiments I decided to go my own way in style and see what would happen.

Poetry is a fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing, with an illegible oath between.