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.

We only keep what we lose.

[In old age] there is a childlike innocence, often, that has nothing to do with the childishness of senility. The moments become precious . . .

Where joy in an old pencil is not absurd.

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

I believe that children long for form just as grownups do, and that it releases rather than cramps creative energy.

In the novel or the journal you get the journey. In a poem you get the arrival.