In the middle of the night, things well up from the past that are not always cause for rejoicing--the unsolved, the painful encounters, the mistakes, the reasons for shame or woe. But all, good or bad, give me food for thought, food to grow on.

This suspension of one's own reality, this being entirely alone in a strange city (at times I wondered if I had lost the power of speech) is an enriching state for a writer. Then the written word ... takes on an intensity of its own. Nothing gets exteriorized or dissipated; all is concentrated within.

It is always hard to hear the buried truth from another person.

when I am working I immediately feel hopeful.

Do we always make our freedom out of someone else's bondage?

a poet never feels useful.

Though friendship is not quick to burn it is explosive stuff.