Your unforgivable sins do not allow you to see my splendor.

A writer - and, I believe, generally all persons - must think that whatever happens to him or her is a resource. All things have been given to us for a purpose, and an artist must feel this more intensely. All that happens to us, including our humiliations, our misfortunes, our embarrassments, all is given to us as raw material, as clay, so that we may shape our art.

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

I don't think there's any essential difference, at least for me, between writing poetry and writing prose.

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

This web of time--the strands of which approach one another, bifurcate, intersect or ignore eachother through the centuries--embrace every posibility.

It means much to have loved, to have been happy, to have laid my hand on the living Garden, even for a day.