Poems, like dreams, are a sort of royal road to the unconscious. They tell you what your secret self cannot express.

I have a very sensitive nose. I identify with dogs. I understand the world through my nose.

I had been a feminist all my life, but the big problem was how to make your feminism jibe with you unappeasable hunger for male bodies.

Because I loved myself, I was loved.

Beware of the man who denounces psychiatrists; / he is afraid.

Perhaps it is because Venice is both liquid and solid, both air and stone, that it somehow combines all the elements crucial to make our imaginations ignite and turn fantasies into realities.

It is the nature of those books we call classics to wait patiently on the shelf for us to grow into them.