i wish i was away in Ingo far across the briny sea sailing over deepest waters where neither care nore worry trouble me

I have learned so much from working with other poets, travelling and reading with them, spending days discussing poems in progress. There is the sense that we are all, as writers, part of something which is more powerful than any of us.

Those who try to obliterate the past are injuring the present.

Reread, rewrite, reread, rewrite. If it still doesn't work, throw it away. It's a nice feeling, and you don't want to be cluttered with the corpses of poems and stories which have everything in them except the life they need.

A novel, in the end, is a container, a shape which you are trying to pour your story into.

It is a violation which has obsessed the tyrants of the twentieth century. They do not want simply to kill their opponents, but to liquidate them, to deny that they have ever existed.

For you where never my blood sister so no more shall I call you little sister