I know that the writers I read and admire all have an influence on my work, but trying to determine to what degree any particular piece of input changes the way I think about writing seems counterproductive.

To understand the world, one’s place in it, is to be always at the risk of drowning.

Poetry and prose are of equal importance to me as a reader, and there doesn't seem to be much difference in my own writing.

The world makes liars of us all.

I had the feeling that if I encountered anyone they would intuit my disgrace and would judge me instantly. Nothing is more isolating than having a particular history. At least that's what I thought. Now I know: all pain is the same. Only the details are different.

The details of the world in which we live are always secondary to the fact that we must live in them.

I knew that at least a few of the stars I saw were probably gone already, collapsed into nothing. I felt like I was looking at a lie. But I didn't mind. The world makes liars of us all.