The art of longing's over, and it's never coming back.

It’s a pity if someone… has to console himself for the wreck of his days with the notion that somehow his voice, his work embodies the deepest, most obscure, freshest, rawest oyster of reality in the unfathomable refrigerator of the heart’s ocean, but I am such a one, and there you have it.

Certainly within any decadent period, you would probably find the purest expressions of conviction, and I do not see that in many of the people I know.

Out of the thousands who are known or who want to be known as poets, maybe one or two are genuine and the rest are fakes, hanging around the sacred precincts, trying to look like the real thing.

I want to be paid for my work, not work for my pay.

And I had not much of a voice. I didn't play that great guitar either.

I wish I could say everything in one word. I hate all the things that can happen between the beginning of a sentence and the end.