And immediately Rather than words comes the thought of high windows: The sun-comprehending glass, And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.

All the unhurried day / Your mind lay open like a drawer of knives.

There is bad in all good authors: what a pity the converse isn't true!

Uncontradicting solitude Supports me on its giant palm; And like a sea-anemone Or simple snail, there cautiously Unfolds, emerges, what I am.

I listen to money singing, it's like looking down from long French windows at a provincial town. The slums, the canal, the churches ornate and mad in the evening sun. It is intensely sad.

I like spaghetti because you don't have to take your eyes off the book to pick about among it, it's all the same.

A writer can have only one language, if language is going to mean anything to him.