..it's awful not to be loved. It's the worst thing in the world...It makes you mean, and violent, and cruel.

My wants are simple. I have no desire to latch onto a monster symbol of fate and power and prove my manhood in titanic piscine war. But sometimes I do like a couple of cooperative fish of frying size.

Saints can spring from any soil.

Writing to me is a deeply personal, even a secret function and when the product I turned loose it is cut off from me and I have no sense of its being mine. Consequently criticism doesn't mean anything to me. As a disciplinary matter, it is too late.

How can the poem and the stink and the grating noise - the quality of light, the tone, the habit and the dream - be set down alive?

The human is the only guilty animal.

The sad ones are those who waste their energy in trying to hold it back, for they can only feel bitterness in loss and no joy in gain.