No one asks you to throw Mozart out of the window. Keep Mozart. Cherish him. Keep Moses too, and Buddha and Lao Tzu and Christ. Keep them in your heart. But make room for the others, the coming ones, the ones who are already scratching on the window-panes.

The poem is the dream made flesh, in a two-fold sense: as work of art, and as life, which is a work of art.

But it's just because the chances are all against you, just because there is so little hope, that life is sweet over here.

History is the myth, the true myth, of man's fall made manifest in time.

The poet speaks adequately only when he speaks somewhat wildly... not with intellect alone, but with intellect inebriated by nectar.

All my good reading, you might say, was done in the toilet.

Example moves the world more than doctrine.