In everyone there sleeps a sense of life lived according to love.

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.

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

So many things I had thought forgotten Return to my mind with stranger pain: Like letters that arrive addressed to someone Who left the house so many years ago.

Sex means nothing--just the moment of ecstasy, that flares and dies in minutes.

I am beginning to think of the human imagination as a fruit machine on which victories are rare and separated by much vain expense, and represent a rare alignment of mental and spiritual qualities that normally are quite at odds.

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.