Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.

When a reader finishes a wonderful story and lays it aside, he should have to pause for a minute and collect himself.

Something’s died in me,” she goes. “It took a long time for it to do it, but it’s dead. You’ve killed something, just like you’d took an axe to it. Everything is dirt now.

You have to have been in love to write poetry.

I’d like to go out in the front yard and shout something. “None of this is worth it!” That’s what I’d like people to hear.

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

Dreams, you know, are what you wake up from.