I do what I want to do. It was a brash statement of(her)girlhood. Now she was an adult, the boast seemed quaint. For rarely do you know what you want. Even after you've done it you can't say clearly if that was what you'd wanted or just something that happened to you, like weather.

I think all art comes out of conflict. When I write I am always looking for the dramatic kernel of an event, the junctures of people's lives when they go in one direction, not another.

How does the poet transform his banal thoughts (are not most thoughts banal?) into such stunning forms, into beauty?

Betrayal is the deepest wound. Betrayal is what remains of love, when love has gone.

I want to tell you that I love you I want to tell you that I love you I want to tell you that I love I love I love I love but you do not.

Fiction that adds up, that suggests a "logical consistency," or an explanation of some kind, is surely second-rate fiction; for the truth of life is its mystery.

Paradox: how do we know what we have failed to see because we have no language to express it, thus we cannot know that we have failed to see it.