Creativity is an unending exercise in uncertainty.

Every individual ought to know at least one poet from cover to cover: if not as a guide through the world, then as a yardstick for the language.

Out of Dostoevsky: Kafka. Out of Tolstoy: Margaret Mitchell. (in conversation, explaining his dislike for Tolstoy)

Perhaps the best proof of the Almighty's existence is that we never know when we are to die.

Creativity is an unending exercise in uncertainty.

In poetic thought, the role of the subconscious is played by euphony.

Racism? But isn't it only a form of misanthropy?