Dear, I can't write, it's all a fantasy: a kind of circling obsession.

Here silence stands Like heat. Here leaves unnoticed thicken, Hidden weeds flower, neglected waters quicken, Luminously-peopled air ascends; And past the poppies bluish neutral distance Ends the land suddenly beyond a beach Of shapes and shingle. Here is unfenced existence: Facing the sun, untalkative, out of reach.

Here no elsewhere underwrites my existence.

I feel the only thing you can do about life is to preserve it, by art if you're an artist, by children if you're not.

Dear, I can't write, it's all a fantasy: a kind of circling obsession.

You can't put off being young until you retire.

He married a woman to stop her getting away Now she's there all day.