Into the paradise of euphony, the good poet must introduce hell. Broken paradises are the only kind worth reading.

I want what everybody wants, that's how I know I'm still breathing.

It's freeing, to think that there's always an aspect of us outside the grasp of speech, the common stuff of language.

The physical reinvention of the world is endless, relentless, fascinating, exhaustive; nothing that seems solid is. If you could stand at just a little distance in time, how fluid and shape-shifting physical reality would be, everything hurrying into some other form, even concrete, even stone.

Sentimental assertions are always a form of detachment; they confront the acute, terrible awareness of individual pain, the sharp particularity of loss or the fierce individuality of passion with the dulling universal certainty of platitude.

To choose to live with a dog is to agree to participate in a long process of interpretation, a mutual agreement though the human being holds most of the cards.

Into the paradise of euphony, the good poet must introduce hell. Broken paradises are the only kind worth reading.