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.

There the door is always open into the “holy” — growth, birth, death.

They are commiting murder who merely live.

Time spent with poets is never wasted.

What is destructive is impatience, haste, expecting too much too fast.

Do we always make our freedom out of someone else's bondage?

I feel more alive when I'm writing than I do at any other time--except maybe when I'm making love.