I feel that the task of criticizing my poetry is best left to others (i.e. critics) and would much rather have it take place after I am dead. If at all.

A divorce is like an amputation: you survive it, but there's less of you.

All I can hope for is a reconstruction: the way love feels is always only approximate.

But I began then to think of time as having a shape, something you could see, like a series of liquid transparencies, one laid on top of another.

I used to think of my body as an instrument, of pleasure, or a means of transportation, or an implement for the accomplishment of my will.

In Paradise there are no stories, because there are no journeys.

He was deciding whether to cut her throat or love her forever.