... love is healing, even rootless love.

The trouble is, old age is not interesting until one gets there. It's a foreign country with an unknown language to the young and even to the middle-aged.

It always comes back to the same necessity: go deep enough and there is a bedrock of truth, however hard.

For a long time now, every meeting with another human being has been the reverberations after even the simplest conversation. But the deep collision is and has been with my unregenerate, tormenting and tormented self...I am unable to become what I see. I feel like an inadequate machine, a machine that breaks down at crucial moments, grinds to a dreadful halt, "won't go".

I feel happy to be keeping a journal again. I've missed it, missed naming things as they appear, missed the half hour when I push all duties aside and savor the experience of being alive in this beautiful place.

I am not a greedy person except about flowers and plants, and then I become fanatically greedy.

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