It is not possible, for a poet, writing in any language, to protect himself from the tragic elements in human life.... [ellipsis in source] Illness, old age, and death--subjects as ancient as humanity--these are the subjects that the poet must speak of very nearly from the first moment that he begins to speak.

But it's silly to suggest the writing of poetry is something ethereal, a sort of soul-crashing, devastating emotional experience that wrings you. I have no fancy ideas about poetry. ... It doesn't come to you on the wings of a dove. It's something you have to work hard at.

But is there any reason to believe that a woman's spiritual fibre is less sturdy than a man's? Is it not possible for a woman to come to terms with herself if not with the world; to withdraw more and more, as time goes on, her own personality from her productions; to stop childish fears of death and eschew charming rebellions against facts?

I have lost faith in universal panaceas - work is the one thing in which I really believe.

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

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

Innocence of heart and violence of feeling are necessary in any kind of superior achievement: The arts cannot exist without them.