When he died he would not end. The world would end.

The best moments involve a loss of control. It's a kind of rapture, and it can happen with words and phrases fairly often - completely surprising combinations that make a higher kind of sense, that come to you out of nowhere. But rarely for extended periods, for paragraphs and pages - I think poets must have more access to this state than novelists do.

Every advance in knowledge and technique is matched by a new kind of death, a new strain. Death adapts, like a viral agent.

There's always a period of curious fear between the first sweet-smelling breeze and the time when the rain comes cracking down.

Man's guilt in history and in the tides of his own blood has been complicated by technology, the daily seeping falsehearted death.

I was never either pro-culture or counter-culture. I was in a kind of middle state.

The world is shrinking into a kind of technological funnel. I think people are drawn into their technological devices, and this becomes a kind of subjective universe, into which much of the rest of the world simply does not enter.