Fear has a smell, as love does.

The desire to be loved is the last illusion. Give it up and you will be free.

Vanity is becoming a nuisance, I can see why women give it up, eventually. But I'm not ready for that yet.

The truth, it seems, is not just what you find when you open a door: it is itself a door, which the poet is always on the verge of going through.

If we were all on trial for our thoughts, we would all be hanged.

He stops, looks up at this window, and I can see the white oblong of his face. We look at each other. I have no rose to toss, he has no lute. But it's the same kind of hunger.

I hate to break this to you: One of these days I'm going to die. I expect that when I croak I'll no longer be using Twitter, unless I can do it from the grave.