The minute one utters a certainty, the opposite comes to mind.

Poetry finds its perilous equilibrium somewhere between music and speech.

If I were to choose one single thing that that would restore Paris to the senses, it would be that strangely sweet, unhealthy smell of the Métro, so very unlike the dank cold or the stuffy heat of subways in New York.

It is only when we can believe that we are creating the soul that life has any meaning, but when we can believe it - and I do and always have - then there is nothing we do that is without meaning and nothing that we suffer that does not hold the seed of creation in it.

For me the moral dilemma this past year has been how to make peace with the unacceptable.

In the country of pain we are each alone.

They are commiting murder who merely live.