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

Here no elsewhere underwrites my existence.

I think writing about unhappiness is probably the source of my popularity, if I have any - after all, most people are unhappy, don't you think?

I think that at the bottom of all art lies the impulse to preserve.

One of the quainter quirks of life is that we shall never know who dies on the dame day as we do ourselves.

One of the great criticisms of poets of the past is that they said one thing and did another.

I have no enemies. But my friends don't like me.