Sorrow is implicit in love as gravitation is implicit in mass.

Our inventions mirror our secret wishes.

The artist's work constitutes the only satisfactory relationship he can have with his fellow men since he seeks his real friends among the dead and the unborn.

How grudging memory is, and how bitterly she clutches the raw material of her daily work.

What are stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?

It's unthinkable not to love - you'd have a severe nervous breakdown. Or you'd have to be Philip Larkin.

To write a poem is like trying to catch a lizard without its tail falling off.