In the end, every hypochondriac is his own prophet.

We feel the machine slipping from our hands As if someone else were steering; If we see light at the end of the tunnel, It's the light of the oncoming train.

Everywhere, giant finned cars nose forward like fish; a savage servility slides by on grease.

The world is absolutely out of control now and is not going to be saved by any reason or unreason.

In the end, every hypochondriac is his own prophet.

Poetry is not the record of an event: it is an event.

Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.