Read between the lines.Then meet me in the silence if you can.

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

Where joy in an old pencil is not absurd.

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?

So this was fame at last! Nothing but a vast debt to be paid to the world in energy, blood, and time.

One of the springs of poetry is joy.

I feel like an inadequate machine, a machine that breaks down at crucial moments, grinds to a dreadful hault, 'won't go,' or, even worse, explodes in some innocent person's face.