There is also, in any history, the buried, the wasted, and the lost.

the truth of a poem is its form and its content, its music and its meaning are the same.

Dreams are the sources of action, the meeting and the end, a resting place among the flight of things.

One writes in order to feel.

What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open.

The journey is my home.

Always our wars have been our confessions of weakness