Best thing to happen for a poet. A fine death, no? An impressive death.

I would rather like to think of God as being a kind of adventurer - even as Wells thought about him - or perhaps as something within us making for some unknown purpose.

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

You can't measure time by days, the way you measure money by dollars and cents, because dollars are all the same while every day is different and maybe every hour as well.

Any time something is written against me, I not only share the sentiment but feel I could do the job far better myself. Perhaps I should advise would-be enemies to send me their grievances beforehand, with full assurance that they will receive my every aid and support. I have even secretly longed to write, under a pen name, a merciless tirade against myself.

The certainty that everything has already been written annuls us, or renders us phantasmal.

As the end approaches, there are no longer any images from memory - there are only words.