Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

And books which told me everything about the wasp, except why.

Hands have not tears to flow.

This poem has been called obscure. I refuse to believe that it is obscurer than pity, violence, or suffering. But being a poem, not a lifetime, it is more compressed.

I've just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record.

Love is the last light spoken.

Oh, I'm a martyr to music.