A 'truth' detached and purified of pleasures of ordinary life is not worth a damn in my view. Every grand theory and noble sentiment ought to be first tested in the kitchen-and then in bed, of course.
The poem I want to write is impossible. A stone that floats.
There’s no preparation for poetry.
The world is beautiful but not sayable. That's why we need art.
If the sky falls they shall have clouds for supper.
One writes because one has been touched by the yearning for and the despair of ever touching the Other.