Conflict is the soul of literature.

Venice, that capital city of dream and intrigue, that double city (one above and seemingly solid, one below, wavering and reflected in the waters), which never disappoints.

... what is great poetry, after all, but the continuation of the human voice after death?

We write poems / as leaves give oxygen - / so we can breathe.

What a damnably lonely profession writing is! In order to do it, one must banish the world, and having banished it, one feels cosmically alone.

Before things are written down they don't exist in quite the same way. The act of fixing them in words gives them a kind of currency that can be traded.

Though my friends envied me because I always seemed so cheerful and confident, I was secretly terrified of practically everything.