The life of a poet lies not merely in the finite language-dance of expression but in the nearly infinite combinations of perception and memory combined with the sensitivity to what is perceived and remembered.

No book or poem is ever finished, merely abandoned.

Pain is an interesting and off-putting thing. Few if any things in life concentrate our attention so completely and terribly, and few things are more boring to listen to or read about.

The whole planet reeks of mysticism without revelation.

Evolution brings human beings. Human beings, through a long and painful process, bring humanity.

The past is dead and buried. But I know now that buried things have a way of rising to the surface when one least expects them to.

Those who ignore history's lessons in the ultimate folly of war are forced to do more than relive them ... they may be forced to die by them.