He speaks in your voice, American, and there's a shine in his eye that's halfway hopeful.

We seem to believe it is possible to ward off death by following rules of good grooming.

One of my earliest memories as a reader - I don't know how old I was, quite young - was a poem of his, called "Fog," and I remember the first verse, "The fog comes / on little cat feet".

I don't know what I think about certain subjects, even today, until I sit down and try to write about them.

Everyone who does not live in Berlin lives in Brooklyn now.

In cities no one notices specific dying. Dying is a quality of the air. It's everywhere and nowhere.

Digital clocks took the 'space' out of time.