I think that at the bottom of all art lies the impulse to preserve.
All the unhurried day / Your mind lay open like a drawer of knives.
A writer can have only one language, if language is going to mean anything to him.
A good poem about failure is a success.
In everyone there sleeps a sense of life lived according to love.
I have a sense of melancholy isolation, life rapidly vanishing, all the usual things. It's very strange how often strong feelings don't seem to carry any message of action