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

The hardest thing we are asked to do in this world is to remain aware of suffering, suffering about which we can do nothing.

over and over again I am struck by the wordiness of modern poetry, as if language had replaced experience and must be more and more extreme, intricate and in a way divorced from life itself. It seems as if what we all need is a great purification - but how will that come about?

we are never done with thinking about our parents, I suppose, and come to know them better long after they are dead than we ever did when they were alive.

I long for the bulbs to arrive, for the early autumn chores are melancholy, but the planting of bulbs is the work of hope and is always thrilling.

At any moment solitude may put on the face of loneliness.

It is good for a professional to be reminded that his professionalism is only a husk, that the real person must remain an amateur, a lover of the work.