Poetry is fired by love.

When I'm sitting at the desk not being able to write line one, it's silence and despair! It's not so easy to put the pen to the legal pad or type the first sentence on the computer screen.

It is the city of mirrors, the city of mirages, at once solid and liquid, at once air and stone.

We were not human beings going through spiritual experiences; we were spiritual beings going through human experiences, in order to grow.

Venice is ever the fragile labyrinth at the edge of the sea and it reminds us how brief and perilous the journeys of our lives are; perhaps that is why we love it so. City of plagues and brief liaisons, city of lingering deaths and incendiary loves, city of chimeras, nightmares, pigeons, bells. You are the only city in the world whose dialect has a word for the shimmer of canal water reflected on the ceiling of a room.

A book is a box brimming with incendiary material. The reader strikes the match.

There is a rhythm to the ending of a marriage just like the rhythm of a courtship, only backward.