It was a dance of masks and every mask was perfect because every mask was a real face and every face was a real mask so there was no mask and there was no face for there was but one dance in which there was but one mask but one true face which was the same and which was a thing without a name which changed and changed into itself over and over.

Maybe the culture is [particularly] shabby now. Maybe it's because I'm over sixty, that I can feel that about everything.

I can work on a verse for a very long time before realising it's not any good and then, and only then, can I discard it.

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.

How can I begin anything new with all of yesterday in me?

So the great affair is over but whoever would have guessed, It would leave us all so vacant and so deeply unimpressed, It's like our visit to the moon or to that other star, I guess you go for nothing if you really want to go that far.

I bargain now. I offer buttons for his love.