I'm terrified of the thought of time passing (or whatever is meant by that phrase) whether I 'do' anything or not. In a way I may believe, deep down, that doing nothing acts as a brake on 'time's - it doesn't of course. It merely adds the torment of having done nothing, when the time comes when it really doesn't matter if you've done anything or not.

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

What will survive of us is love.

Everyone should be forcibly transplanted to another continent from their family at the age of three.

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

Novels seem to me to be richer, broader, deeper, more enjoyable than poems.

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