I feel the terror of idleness, like a red thirst. Death isn't just an idea.

You want to cry aloud for your mistakes. But to tell the truth the world doesn't need any more of that sound.

When When it’s over, it’s over, and we don’t know any of us, what happens then. So I try not to miss anything. I think, in my whole life, I have never missed The full moon or the slipper of its coming back. Or, a kiss. Well, yes, especially a kiss.

Do you love this world? Do you cherish your humble and silky life? Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

The poem in which the reader does not feel himself or herself a participant is a lecture, listened to from an uncomfortable chair, in a stuffy room, inside a building.

But I also say this: that light is an invitation to happiness, and that happiness, when it's done right, is a kind of holiness, palpable and redemptive.

Today again I am hardly myself. It happens over and over.