Those of us who make up poems have agreed not to say what the pain is.

I knew this friendship with myself couldn’t last forever.

The distance between the adolescent and the true adult is about five thousand miles, but the distance between the adult and the elder is almost as large.

I am proud only of those days that pass in undivided tenderness.

The French still offer Sartre and Derrida rather than Pascal.

We spend our life until we’re twenty deciding what parts of ourself to put into the bag, and we spend the rest of our lives trying to get them out again.

When a father, absent during the day, returns home at six, his children receive only his temperament, not his teaching.