For each Joan of Arc there is a Hitler perched at the other end of the teeter-totter.

I remember awakening one morning and finding everything smeared with the color of forgotten love.

Bad luck for the young poet would be a rich father, an early marriage, an early success or the ability to do anything well.

Our disappointment sits between us.

Are you becoming what you've always hated?

There's nothing else as pleasant as being unpleasant when there's nothing else to do, and there's usually nothing else to do.

I was an Agnostic. Agnostics didn't have much to argue about.