Every scar in my face is worth it.

Early publication can be a dubious blessing: we all know writers who would give anything not to have published their first book, and go about trying to buy up all existing copies.

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

I'm sure all that you've heard is just the usual gossip, invented to injure feelings rather than illuminate truth.

For what are the words with which to summarize a lifetime, so much crowded confused happiness terminated by such stark slow-motion pain?

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

Is there any mystery like who you finally turn out to be.