All great poetry is dipped in the dyes of the heart.

My personal hobbies are reading, listening to music, and silence.

Isn't it curious how one has only to open a book of verse to realise immediately that it was written by a very fine poet, or else that it was written by someone who is not a poet at all. In the case of the former, the lines, the images, though they are inherent in each other, leap up and give one this shock of delight. In the case of the latter, they lie flat on the page, never having lived.

Picasso was a delightful, kindly, friendly, simple little man. When I met him he was extremely excited and overjoyed that his mother-in-law had just died, and he was looking forward to the funeral.

Hot water is my native element. I was in it as a baby, and I have never seemed to get out of it ever since.

I have never, in all my life, been so odious as to regard myself as 'superior' to any living being, human or animal. I just walked alone - as I have always walked alone.

I may say that I think greed about poetry is the only permissible greed - it is, indeed, unavoidable.