Don’t complain, don’t explain.

I am a cigarette with a body attached to it

Woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read.

It's possible, in a poem or short story, to write about commonplace things and objects using commonplace but precise language, and to endow those things—a chair, a window curtain, a fork, a stone, a woman's earring—with immense, even startling power.

I'm always learning something. Learning never ends.

There was a time when I thought I loved my first wife more than life itself. But now I hate her guts. I do. How do you explain that? What happened to that love? What happened to it, is what I'd like to know. I wish someone could tell me.

And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.