Emerson, I am trying to live, as you said we must, the examined life. But there are days I wish there was less in my head to examine, not to speak of the busy heart.

Poetry is one of the original arts, and it began, as did all the fine arts, within the original wilderness of the earth.

I worked probably 25 years by myself, just writing and working, not trying to publish much, not giving readings.

...Sometimes I dream that everything in the world is here, in my room, in a great closet, named and orderly, and I am here too, in front of it, hardly able to see for the flash and the brightness- and sometimes I am that madcap person clapping my hands and singing; and sometimes I am that quiet person down on my knees.

Writers sometimes give up what is most strange and wonderful about their writing - soften their roughest edges - to accommodate themselves toward a group response.

Every day I see or hear something that more or less kills me with delight, that leaves me like a needle in the haystack of light.

It's not a competition, it's a doorway.