The artist must create himself or be born again.

Let me walk through the fields of paper touching with my wand dry stems and stunted butterflies.

There comes a time when only anger is love.

One of the obligations of the writer is to say or sing all that he or she can, to deal with as much of the world as becomes possible to him or her in language.

Mediocrity is perhaps due not so much to lack of imagination as to lack of faith in the imagination, lack of the capacity for this abandon.

Wear scarlet! Tear the green lemons off the tree! I don't want to forget who I am, what has burned in me, and hang limp and clean, an empty dress -

What I heard was my whole self saying and singing what it knew: I can.