I didn't know what hate felt like, not the hate that comes after love. It's huge and desperate and it longs to be proved wrong. And every day it's proved right it grows a little more monstrous. If the love was passion, the hate will be obsession. A need to see the once-loved weak and cowed beneath pity. Disgust is close and dignity is far away. The hate is not only for the once loved, it's for yourself too; how could you ever have loved this?

We heal up through being loved, and through loving others. We don't heal by forming a secret society of one - by assessing about the only other 'one' we might admit, and being doomed to disappointment.

I had relationships with men as well as women. I wasn't choosing; I didn't think I had to.

The poet will not be satisfied with recording, the poet will have to transform.

Are we all living like this? Two lives, the ideal outer life and the inner imaginative life where we keep our secrets?

I believe in communication; books communicate ideas and make bridges between people.

If I can't stay where I am, and I can't, then I will put all that I can into the going.