I feel often very close to the ecstasy and anguish which lie at the very heart of poetry - I am writing a lot.

I simply adore being alone - I find it a consuming thirst - and when that thirst is slaked, then I am happy.

The minute one utters a certainty, the opposite comes to mind.

A house that does not have one warm, comfy chair in it is soulless.

Love is our human miracle.

What we have not has made us what we are. / ... / What we are not drives us to consummation.

I see a certain order in the universe and math is one way of making it visible.