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

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

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.

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

Without anxiety life would have very little savor.

The beginner hugs his infant poem to him and does not want it to grow up. But you may have to break your poem to remake it.

Pain can make a whole winter bright, like fever, force us to live deep and hard.