Home is so sad. It stays as it was left, / Shaped to the comfort of the last to go / As if to win them back

Something, like nothing, happens anywhere.

I think a young poet, or an old poet, for that matter, should try to produce something that pleases himself personally, not only when he's written it but a couple of weeks later. Then he should see if it pleases anyone else, by sending it to the kind of magazine he likes reading.

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.

Sexual intercourse began in 1963 ... / Between the end of the Chatterley ban/ and the Beatles first LP

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.

I can't understand these chaps who go round American universities explaining how they write poems: It's like going round explaining how you sleep with your wife.