Laws aren't ghosts in this country, they walk around with the smell of earth on them.

When I write, I aim in my mind not toward New York but toward a vague spot a little to the east of Kansas.

Rain is grace; rain is the sky descending to the earth; without rain, there would be no life.

The throat: how strange, that there is not more erotic emphasis upon it. For here, through this compound pulsing pillar, our life makes its leap into spirit, and in the other direction gulps down what it needs of the material world.

Dream golf is simply golf played on another course. We chip from glass tables onto moving stairways; we swing in a straightjacket, through masses of cobweb, and awaken not with any sense of unjust hazard but only with a regret that the round can never be completed, and that one of our phantasmal companions has kept the scorecard.

There is this quality, in things, of the right way seeming wrong at first.

I would especially like to re-court the Muse of poetry, who ran off with the mailman four years ago, and drops me only a scribbled postcard from time to time.