I have gone to the forest.

In my solitude, many miles from men and houses, I am in a childishly happy and carefree state of mind, which you are incapable of understanding unless someone explains it to you

Small jerks began to appear in my legs, my walk became unsteady precisely because I wanted it to be smooth.

The writer must be able to revel and roll in the abundance of words; he must know not only the direct but also the secret power of a word. There are overtones and undertones to a word, and lateral echoes, too.

But things worked out. Everything works out. Though sometimes they work out sideways.

I have had much to learn from Sweden's poetry and, more especially, from her lyrics of the last generation.

Language must resound with all the harmonies of music. The writer must always, at all times, find the tremulous word which captures the thing and is able to draw a sob from my soul by its very rightness.