When I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds, until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost unhearable sound of the roses singing.

I wanted the past to go away, I wanted to leave it, like another country; I wanted my life to close, and open like a hinge, like a wing, like the part of the song where it falls down over the rocks: an explosion, a discovery; I wanted to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know, whoever I was, I was alive for a little while.

You must not ever stop being whimsical.

We can know a lot. And still, no doubt, there are rash and wonderful ideas brewing somewhere; there are many surprises yet to come.

Walks work for me. I enter some arena that is neither conscious or unconscious.

Poetry isn't a profession, it's a way of life. It's an empty basket; you put your life into it and make something out of that.

If you have ever gone into the woods with me, I must love you very much.