Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too, don't I? I'm just like a pile of leaves.

I love you. I love you, but I’m turning to my verses and my heart is closing like a fist.

The artificial is always innocent.

I don't ... like rhythm, assonance, all that stuff. You just go on your nerve. If someone's chasing you down the street with a knife you just run, you don't turn around and shout, 'Give it up! I was a track star for Mineola Prep.'

It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I admire you, beloved, for the trap you've set. It's like a final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.

I wonder if the course of narcissism through the ages would have been any different had Narcissus first peered into a cesspool. He probably did.

There is a geography which holds its hands just so far from the breast and pushes you away, crying so.