Wishin' was dyin' but I gotta make it all this way to that bed on these feet.

I can offer you only: this world like a knife

Them lady poets must not marry, pal.

We are using our own skins for wallpaper and we cannot win.

Praise will lead you to vanity, and blame will lead you to self-pity, and both are bad for writers.

That is our ‘pointed task. Love & die.

One must be ruthless with one's own writing or someone else will be.