The heresies we should fear are those which can be confused with orthodoxy.

I wonder if I have woven through dreams the sexual strife. I don't think so. But after all, my business is to weave dreams. I suppose I may be allowed to choose the material.

We are as ignorant of the meaning of the dragon as we are of the meaning of the universe.

Time broadens the scope of verses and I know of some which, like music, are everything for all men.

Then I reflect that all things happen, happen to one, precisely now. Century follows century, and things happen only in the present. There are countless men in the air, on land and at sea, and all that really happens happens to me.

The tango is a direct expression of something that poets have often tried to state in words: the belief that a fight may be a celebration.

I know that when I think of myself as being utterly worn out, when I think that somehow I have nothing more to write, then something is happening within me. And, in due course, it bubbles up; it comes to the surface, and then I do my best to listen. But there's nothing mystical about all this. I suppose all writers do the same.