If our god's work is to be done in our time, we must do it ourselves.

Each heart has its graveyard, each household its dead, And knells ring around us wherever we tread, And the feet that awhile made our pathway so bright Pass on to a land that is out of our sight.

What, after all, is more real to us than the geography of our childhoods?

If everyone could understand the working of a psychopath's mind, we undoubtedly would be closer to insanity ourselves.

Poets are the mad midwives to reality. They see not what is, nor what can be, but what must become.

Doing a life study while drunk and in the process of being seduced is never a formula for quality art.

Prison always has been a good place for writers, killing, as it does, the twin demons of mobility and diversion