I am furious at all the letters to answer, when all I want to do is think and write poems. ... I long for open time, with no obligations except toward the inner world and what is going on there.

I have never written a book that was not born out of a question I needed to answer for myself.

I love giving flowers. It is so deliciously unlasting and romantic.

Deep down there was understanding, not of the facts of our lives so much as of our essential natures.

Revision is not going back and fussing around, but going forward into the process of creation

Once more I realize that solitude is my element, and the reason is that extreme awareness of other people (all naturally solitary people must feel this) precludes awareness of one's self, so after a while the self no longer knows that it exists.

I can understand people simply fleeing the mountainous effort Christmas has become... but there are always a few saving graces and finally they make up for all the bother and distress.