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.

Here no elsewhere underwrites my existence.

How little our careers express what lies in us, and yet how much time they take up. It's sad, really.

Death: the anaesthetic from which none come round.

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

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

Poetry is an affair of sanity, of seeing things as they are.