I suppose I have written novels to find out what I thought about something and poems to find out what I felt about something.

letters are so much easier than living. One can give one's best.

One has only to set a loved human being against the fact that we are all in peril all the time to get back a sense of proportion. What does anything matter compared to the reality of love and its span, so brief at best, maintained against such odds?

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

The creative person, the person who moves from an irrational source of power, has to face the fact that this power antagonizes. Under all the superficial praise of the creative is the desire to kill. It is the old war between the mystic and the nonmystic, a war to the death.

Life comes in clusters, clusters of solitude, then a cluster when there is hardly time to breathe.

The garden is growth and change and that means loss as well as constant new treasures to make up for a few disasters.