What a view, i said again. The river was blank and mindless with beauty. It was the most glorious thing I have ever seen. But it was not seeing, really. For once it was not just seeing. It was beholding. I beheld the river in its icy pit of brightness, in its far-below sound and indifference, in its large coil and tiny points and flashes of the moon, in its long sinuous form, in its uncomprehending consequence.

If you write well, you don't have to dress funny.

Find out what you do best, and then don't do it.

Yet technique matters, even so. God uses it, for a buffalo is not a leopard.

There are so many selves in everybody, and just to explore and exploit one is wrong, dead wrong, for the creative person.

I do think the author ought to be able to give a good reason for the way things are in his poem. Not a bad question to ask oneself.

There ain't nothin' to dyin', really. You just get tired. You kind of drift away.