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?

Death is no different whined at than withstood.

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.

A writer can have only one language, if language is going to mean anything to him.

I didn't choose poetry: poetry chose me.

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

And immediately Rather than words comes the thought of high windows: The sun-comprehending glass, And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.