Being very rich as far as I am concerned is having a margin. The margin is being able to give.

I’m only able to write poetry, for the most part, when I have a Muse, a woman who focuses the world for me.

I long for the bulbs to arrive, for the early autumn chores are melancholy, but the planting of bulbs is the work of hope and is always thrilling.

Words are my passion / And out of them and me / I would create beauty.

And one cold starry night / Whatever your belief / The phoenix will take flight / Over the seas of grief / To sing her thrilling song / To stars and waves and sky / For neither old nor young / The phoenix does not die.

I have written every poem, every novel, for the same purpose-to find out what I think, to know where I stand.

It is possible, I suppose, that we are returning to a Dark Age. What is frightening is that violence is not only represented by nations, but everywhere walks among us freely.