Perhaps this very instant is your time.

I cannot believe that the inscrutable universe turns on an axis of suffering; surely the strange beauty of the world must somewhere rest on pure joy!

I hope that one or two immortal lyrics will come out of all this tumbling around.

Women have no wilderness in them They are provident instead Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.

Because language is the carrier of ideas, it is easy to believe that it should be very little else than such a carrier.

The poem is always the last resort. In it the poet makes a world in little, and finds peace, even though, under complete focused emotion, the evocation be far more bitter than reality, or far more lovely.

The fact, and the intuition or logic about the fact, are severe coordinates in fiction. In the short story they must cross with hair-line precision.