Events need their invitation, dissolutions their start.

Life is weather. Life is meals.

A light snow, a snow so faint and small-bodied that it seems nothing more than a manifestation of the cold.

In 1957, I decided: write or perish.

The summer has ended. The garden withers. The mornings become chill. I am thirty, I am thirty-four -the years turn dry as leaves.

I'd say the biggest relationship is the repetition of certain themes. I don't want to say "topics," but certain points of interest.

It is always an accident that saves us. It is someone we have never seen.