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.

We have stopped believing in progress. What progress that is !

I have known uncertainty: a state unknown to the Greeks.

Time is the tiger that devours me, but I am that tiger.

My friends tell me that I am an intruder, that I don't really write when I attempt poetry. But those of my friends who write in prose say that I'm no writer when I attempt prose. So really I don't know what to do, I'm in a quandary.

We are our memory, we are that chimerical museum of shifting shapes, that pile of broken mirrors.

While we are asleep in this world, we are awake in another one