But it is just two lovers, holding hands and in a hurry to reach their car, their locked hands a starfish leaping through the dark.

We were all brought up to want things and maybe the world isn't big enough for all that wanting. I don't know. I don't know anything

There's a crystallization that goes on in a poem which the young man can bring off, but which the middle-aged man can't.

"Hit it with the back of your left hand" was the first swing thought I ever heard, brusquely bu not unlovingly put to me by the aunt-in-law who had moments before placed a golf club in my virgin grip. I was twenty-five, and had spent my youth in a cloisterd precinct of teh middle class where golf was a rumoured something, like champagne breakfasts and divorce, that the rich did.

Within your own generation-the same songs, the same wars, the same attitudes toward those wars, the same rules and radio shows in the air-you can gauge the possibilities and impossibilities. With a person of another generation, you are treading water, playing with fire.

Accent the ugly until it becomes gorgeous.

Figure out where you're going before you go there: he was told that a long time ago.