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.

The art of one period cannot be approached through the attitudes (emotional or intellectual) of another.

I'll lie here and learn How, over their ground, Trees make a long shadow And a light sound.

It is almost impossible for the poetess, once laurelled, to take off the crown for good or to reject values and taste of those who tender it.

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

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 Initial Mystery that attends any journey is: how did the traveler reach his starting point in the first place?