Injustice wears ever the same harsh face wherever it shows itself.

Life is to be lived, not controlled, and humanity is won by continuing to play in face of certain defeat.

I do not know if all cops are poets, but I know that all cops carry guns with triggers.

The act of writing requires a constant plunging back into the shadow of the past where time hovers ghostlike.

I suddenly recall the arpeggios of laughter lilting across the tender, springtime grass-gay-welling, far-floating, fluent, spontaneous, a bell-like feminine fluting, then suppressed; as though snuffed swiftly and irrevocably beneath the quiet solemnity of the vespered air now vibrant with somber chapel bells.

I suspect that all the agony that goes into writing is borne precisely because the writer longs for acceptance-but it must be acceptance on his own terms.

When I discover who I am, I'll be free.