You can't argue with someone who believes, or just passionately suspects, that the poet's function is not to write what he must write but, rather, to write what he would write if his life depended on his taking responsibility for writing what he must in a style designed to shut out as few of his old librarians as humanly possible.

... even the most sublimely accomplished non-stop talker can't consistently please.

Most stuff that is genuine is better left unsaid.

An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else's.

Real ugly girls have it tough. I feel so sorry for them sometimes.

The rest, with very little exaggeration, was books. Meant-to-be-picked-up books. Permanently-left-behind books. Uncertain-what-to-do-with books. But books, books. Tall cases lined three walls of the room, filled to and beyond capacity. The overflow had been piled in stacks on the floor. There was little space left for walking, and none whatever for pacing.

God, I wish you could have been there.